


When The Lights Go Down On Broadway

by SwingGirlAtHeart



Category: Glee
Genre: Drama, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwingGirlAtHeart/pseuds/SwingGirlAtHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a perfectly normal day when the power goes out, and it never comes back. In the aftermath of a chaotic global blackout, all that's left to do is survive as they brave the journey home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. While The Sky Is Falling

_Nine minutes left_

"Yes, of course, Mr. Van de Sandt," Kurt rattled off into his headset as he rushed down the corridor toward his boss's office, dodging a few other employees and struggling to keep the latte in his right hand from spilling. "Absolutely. I'll have Ms. Wright send you the finished spread ASAP."

Ending the call, Kurt ducked through Isabel's office door, finding her amidst a chaotic sea of random splashes of color and fabric swatches, her hair slightly disheveled and her forehead deeply knotted.

"Van de Sandt's getting impatient," Kurt said, pressing the warm latte into her hand. "He wants the summer designs by ten o'clock."

Isabel pressed her hand to her forehead, groaning in exasperation. "Well, he won't get them by ten. But I think we can do it by four." She sniffed, taking a long sip from her latte. "Looks like we're in for a long night, Kurt."

Kurt nodded, disappointment settling in the pit of his stomach. He'd been hoping to Skype with Blaine when he got home, but it looked like that wouldn't be happening. "I'll text my roommates and let them know I won't be home."

"Make it quick," Isabel waved him off.

Quickly stepping back out into the hallway, Kurt pulled out his phone and typed out a text to Santana and Rachel telling them that just because he wouldn't be home, it didn't mean either of them had permission to touch the slice of cheesecake he'd been saving in the fridge. He then sent a second text to Blaine:

_Sorry, I'm stuck at work all night… I'll make it up to you, promise ;)_

He didn't wait for a reply before sticking his phone back into his pocket and returning to Isabel's office. He'd check his inbox later.

* * *

_Six minutes_

Blaine smiled at the text from Kurt, sending a simple _No problem Xoxo_ and dropping his phone back onto his desk, turning back to his calculus homework. As much as he'd been looking forward to Skyping with Kurt, it was cool that Kurt was living an adult life, where he could get stuck at work all night and have to play their Skype schedule by ear. It was nice to be a little bit unscheduled.

There was a knock at the door and Cooper leaned in, making Blaine look up from his textbook. "Hey, Bee, you want to go get some pizza or something? I'm starving."

Blaine laughed. "Kitchen not full enough for you?"

"Come on, I'm only in town for a couple days," Cooper grinned. "Spend some time with your big bro."

"I have homework to do."

"You're such a nerd. Come _on_."

Blaine dropped his pencil down, teasingly rolling his eyes. "Alright, fine, I'm coming." He stood up, grabbing his jacket from his closet.

"Well, if it's such a _chore_ —"

Blaine lightly punched his brother in the arm, pushing him out of the way. "Shut up, Cooper. Let's go."

* * *

_Two minutes_

Burt yawned, his fingers gently squeezing Carole's shoulder as she rested against him on their living room couch. They'd settled into a somewhat new tradition of watching old movies after dinner, which Burt enjoyed even though he was mostly sure it was because ever since Finn had passed Carole didn't seem to know what to do with herself in her free time. She was always the one to pick the movies since Burt didn't really care what they watched, and lately she'd been on an Audrey Hepburn kick. Tonight was _Charade._

"You falling asleep?" Carole asked softly, her hand on his knee.

"I'm awake." Burt blinked a few times to wake himself up a little more. He wasn't anywhere near old enough to be falling asleep at 7:30.

"Walter Matthau was surprisingly good-looking," Carole mused absentmindedly as onscreen Hamilton questioned Audrey Hepburn's character.

"Yeah? Think I should gel and comb my hair like that?" Burt asked.

"If you had any hair to speak of."

"Hey!" Burt chuckled, nudging her. "I could at least grow the mustache."

Carole snorted. "Yeah, you do that."

On the television, Audrey Hepburn shook her head. " _Mr. Bartholomew, if you're trying to frighten me… you're doing a first-rate job!_ "

Burt jumped as there was a very abrupt clicking noise, and the television suddenly shut off along with every lamp in the room.

Carole groaned. "Ugh, why'd the power have to go out? It's not even storming and we didn't get to the scene with the game of oranges."

Burt sighed, unwinding his arm from around her to stand up. "I'll go check the circuit breakers." Glancing out the window when he reached the kitchen, he saw that every house down the street, and even the streetlamps, had gone dark. "Looks like it wasn't just the circuits, Carole," Burt called over his shoulder, fumbling for the drawer where they kept the flashlights. "I think the whole town's out."

"Burt, my cell phone isn't turning on," Carole replied from the other room.

Finally pulling open the right drawer, Burt picked up a flashlight and clicked the On button, but the flashlight lay dead and useless in his hand. Frowning, Burt reached for the spare, to no effect; even the spare was unusable. Carole stumbled into the room, nearly hitting the kitchen table in the shadows.

"Flashlights are dead," Burt said.

"Is your phone working?"

Burt fished it out of his pocket, pressing a few random buttons. The screen remained dark. "What the hell? I just charged it two hours ago."

Carole made her way carefully to the front door, stepping out onto the porch to peer down the street. Burt followed suit, leaning over the porch railing to see a couple of cars that looked like they'd coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, their drivers standing confusedly next to them.

"Burt," Carole hissed, grabbing his arm. She pointed up towards the empty sky, her eyes wide. Burt followed her gaze, and his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"Oh my God…"

A massive airplane was spinning downwards, catapulting through the air and heading straight for downtown Lima.

* * *

"Okay, Pizza Hut or Domino's?" Cooper asked as he steered the car towards the center of town.

"Ew to both," Blaine replied. "Can't we have _good_ pizza?"

"Pizza Hut _is_ good— What the hell?"

Cooper was abruptly cut off as every light in the car suddenly vanished, the engine sputtering to a stop. Blaine flinched as the car swerved. Cooper quickly pulled the emergency brake before they could crash into the cars parked by the sidewalk, the vehicle jerking violently to a stop.

"What the _hell_ just happened?" Cooper snapped, twisting the key in the ignition again.

Blaine's eyes widened and he slapped Cooper's shoulder. "Coop. Look."

Through the windshield, the two of them watched in stunned silence as every car on the road ahead of them and behind slowed to a stop, their headlights blinking out as the streetlamps died one after the other. The darkness swept over them and continued to spread, every building in view losing the lights from their windows and signs. People on the sidewalks stopped walking, looking around in confusion or frustratedly punching numbers on their phones.

"Jesus…" Cooper breathed.

Blaine pushed his door open and got out of the car, hoping he'd see a police officer or, at the very least, someone who looked like they knew what was happening.

"Hey, Bee, is your phone working? Mine's not."

Digging his phone out of his pocket, Blaine tapped it a few times to no avail. He squinted at his watch, noticing that the second hand had stopped spinning. "No, and my watch stopped too."

"The hell is going on?" Cooper muttered, jiggling the key in the ignition.

Blaine's head snapped up as a scream echoed down the street from a couple blocks away, quickly followed by another, then another and another. People were beginning to run, all in the same direction – towards Blaine and Cooper. There was an odd whistling roar from above, and Blaine's gaze flew skywards.

An airplane was reeling out of control with a loud metallic groan, its windows dark as it hurtled towards them.

"Cooper!" Blaine yelled, but Cooper had already jumped out of the car and seized Blaine by the arm, dragging him away from the car. They bolted in the opposite direction, falling into step with the tide of screaming people rushing away from the falling jet. There was an awful metallic screech, and Blaine glanced over his shoulder as he ran, seeing briefly that one of the plane's wings had torn off halfway.

"Come on!" Cooper shouted, grabbing Blaine's wrist.

The roar of the wind was deafening, and Blaine suddenly felt the earth rock beneath his feet as the plane collided with the ground, crushing buildings and cars and people beneath it. A split second later, the plane's fuel tank exploded, and Blaine was thrown into the air.

* * *

Kurt was attempting to help Isabel choose whether teal or cyan was more fitting for July when the lights in the office went out, Isabel's computer whirring softly as it shut down. Isabel bolted upright. "That did not just happen," she said. "We have to get this done in a matter of less than nine hours! We do not have time for this!"

"Isabel," Kurt said softly, staring out the office window at the city spread out beneath them.

Every building was going dark, the lights going out in a massive tidal wave across Midtown, and then Manhattan, and then the city beyond.

"Whoa," Isabel breathed, standing beside Kurt with her jaw slack.

"Do we have flashlights?" Kurt asked.

"Just my iPhone," Isabel replied, already fiddling with it. "…But it's not working. Are you _kidding_ me?!" she muttered.

Kurt was about to try his own phone, but movement outside caught his eye, and he flinched back away from the window. "Oh my God."

A tourist helicopter was falling out of the sky as if the blades could no longer spin, careening towards the ground so quickly that Kurt could almost hear it whistling. It vanished behind a building a couple of streets away, and half a second later a massive explosion lit up the block. The windows of the office rattled.

Isabel yelped and stepped back. "What is happening?" she shrieked.

Kurt's heartbeat was thudding in his ears, his stomach twisted into knots. "I – I don't know."

* * *

When the power went out, Rachel had been in the middle of taking a patron's order, and she along with Santana and Dani had watched in confusion as the traffic outside came to a halt, the street going dark around them.

"This is the weirdest blackout I've ever seen," Dani said after realizing none of their phones would turn on. "Do you think the whole city was shut down?"

"No idea," Santana replied, peering through the glass at the front of the restaurant with her hands cupped around her eyes. "Looks like it, though. I don't see any light coming from anywhere else."

"I'm scared," Rachel admitted, wringing her hands and nervously smoothing her apron.

"Why?" Santana deadpanned, still leaning against the window. "It's just a blackout. New York's had them before."

Rachel shook her head. "Something just doesn't feel right. I don't—"

" _GET DOWN!_ " Santana suddenly screamed, whipping around and running to grab Dani and Rachel. She dove to the ground, yanking the two of them down with her just as there was a huge _roar_ from outside and the windows all shattered in the same instant, bursting inwards as a fireball erupted in the street outside. There was a cacophony of screams, coming from seemingly all directions, and Rachel felt hundreds of tiny shards of glass rain down on them.

Rachel's breath heaved, her hands shaking as she pushed herself back up, carefully avoiding the glass on the floor. "W-Was that a bomb?" She could barely hear herself speak over the ringing in her ears.

Santana shook her head, her eyes wide. "Helicopter."

* * *

Blaine coughed, spitting out dirt and pieces of gravel as he grabbed the sidewalk curb he'd landed beside, attempting to pull himself up. His ears felt blocked, a high-pitched whining the only thing he could hear. All he could smell was smoke and fuel and… blood. He could smell blood.

The pavement felt unstable beneath him, and he nearly fell sideways when he tried to stand. He ended up sitting on the curb, hoping the dizziness would subside. There were people still screaming and running around him, but they were all muted beneath the ringing in his ears. Everything seemed like it was moving in slow motion.

Blaine clenched his hands, trying to regain the feeling in his fingertips, and realized his skin was wet a moment before a stinging jolt shot up his arm. Looking down, he saw that nearly all the skin was gone from his right palm, the wound clogged with gravel and bleeding sluggishly. His left forearm down to his elbow was also scraped raw, the skin left with patches missing.

He blinked, trying to clear his head. He must have hit it; he couldn't think clearly.

Cooper.

Where was Cooper?

Swallowing the nausea building in his throat, Blaine pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself against the rear end of the nearest car. His hand left a bloody smear.

Blaine finally tried to actually _look_ at the chaos surrounding him, his eyes searching for his brother's face. There were people running, cars tipped over, and the gargantuan body of the crashed plane – a Boeing 747 commercial jet – lay ruptured and burning two blocks away. The towering flames were the only thing illuminating the town.

And there were bodies in the street.

Blaine doubled over and vomited onto the pavement, clutching the car for support.

" _Cooper!_ " he screamed, his voice sounding muffled in his own head. He gritted his teeth and walked unsteadily into the road. "Cooper, where are you?!"

Staggering through the cars and pieces of debris littering the street, Blaine screamed his brother's name again and again, praying he'd find Cooper and he'd be okay and they could go home as quickly as they could. He refused to look at the handful of unmoving bodies he was forced to pass by.

He screamed until his voice echoed back.


	2. After Midnight

Rachel hugged her chest, sitting on the floor behind the restaurant counter and listening to the shouts from countless people outside. Santana and Dani were crouched next to her, Dani gently dabbing at a cut on Santana's forehead with a napkin. The patrons were long gone, all running into the fray like lemmings.

"Do you think this is a terrorist attack?" Rachel asked, staring at her shoes.

Neither Santana nor Dani answered her.

"You know we can't stay here," Dani said quietly.

"I don't want to go out there," Rachel shook her head.

Dani dropped the napkin onto the ground, rolling back to sit on her heels. "We can't just hide back here forever. We don't know what this is. The safest place to be is home."

"You live in the opposite direction from us," Santana said.

Dani shrugged. "So I'll go home with you guys. I'd rather be there than in my shoebox apartment with my deodorant-hating roommate anyways."

"How are we supposed to get home?!" Rachel demanded, fighting tears. "All the cars stopped, a helicopter crashed literally right outside, and our phones won't turn on! I don't think the buses or the subway are an option!"

"Then we'll walk," Dani insisted flatly.

"That'll take hours!"

"Well, what do you expect to do?!" Dani snapped, throwing her hands up. "Just sit here until help arrives?"

"Be quiet, both of you," Santana ordered. "Rachel, Dani's right. We need to go home."

"So now you're just going to side with your girlfriend?"

"Yeah, because she's _right_ ," Santana spat. "Listen, compared to a lot of people out there, we're okay. When the ambulances come, they're going to have more people to worry about than us. We can walk, so let's walk."

Rachel huffed. "It's _dangerous_."

"Then stay here if you want." Santana brushed off her knees and stood up; Dani followed suit.

"We should take the Williamsburg Bridge," Dani said, tugging nervously on her hair. The light from the burning wreckage outside flickered off of her and Santana's skin, leaving Rachel in the dark on the floor. "It's a little further but I don't want to take the tunnel."

Santana nodded and turned to Rachel. "Are you coming?"

Rachel sighed, swallowing the lump in her throat. "I wonder if Kurt's okay," she said softly.

Santana pressed her lips together. "Rachel, please come with us."

After another moment's hesitation, Rachel gritted her teeth and stood up with them. She didn't want to be outside, but she really, _really_ didn't want to be alone. "Okay," she said. "Okay, let's go."

The broken glass crunched beneath their high-heeled boots as they made their way to the front of the restaurant, Rachel gripping Santana's hand like a lifeline. Dani was the first to step outside, cautiously looking up and down the street for any signs of immediate trouble. The remains of the helicopter lay diagonally in the street, nearly upside down and in flames, so hot that they could feel the waves of heat rolling off it from where they stood. One of the blades had broken off and spun through the air, stabbing straight through the windshield of an empty car just a few feet away.

"I think everybody's cleared out of the block," Dani said over her shoulder. "Come on."

The three of them ducked out of the restaurant, leaving the shattered windows and spilled salt shakers behind. Too afraid to let go of each other's hands, the three of them meandered through the stopped cars, overturned buses, and debris littering the road, and together they headed southeast.

* * *

Blaine's vocal chords felt as though they were scraped as raw as his hands and arms, and the dizzying nausea had anything but subsided. But the ringing had faded from his ears now, and his brain was scrambling to make sense of the clamor of people shouting and running in the opposite direction or frantically calling for help.

" _Cooper!_ " Blaine screamed again, wincing in pain as his throat protested. Maybe Cooper had answered, maybe he hadn't; Blaine wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to hear it if Cooper responded.

The smoke rolled away from the wrecked plane fuselage, clogging the air and turning it foul. Blaine coughed, his eyes watering, and called for Cooper. There was no response beyond the roar of the burning plane.

He stopped short in his tracks, suddenly recognizing Cooper's leather jacket a few yards away in the darkness, lit only by the fire in the fuselage. The air rushed out of his lungs in half a second, and he broke into a run, dropping to his knees. Cooper was lying unmoving on the pavement, one arm limply stretching out in front of him like he was reaching for help. From the ribs down, Cooper's body had been crushed by a car thrown away from the explosion, and a small trail of blood was idly dripping from the corner of his mouth.

"C-Cooper?" Blaine said as loudly as he could muster, his voice cracking. He shook Cooper's shoulders. "Coop. Cooper, wake up!"

Panic squeezed into Blaine's chest, his ribs almost cracking under the pressure. He jumped back onto his feet, throwing his entire body weight into the exposed underside of the car in an attempt to make it roll off of Cooper's legs and torso.

"It-it's okay," Blaine promised aloud, slamming his weight into the car a second time. "I'll get you out, and we'll go home." He slammed the car again, and again, and again. " _Somebody help me!_ " he screamed over his shoulder, his muscles straining to push the car away.

No one heard him, and Blaine desperately beat the car until his knuckles had bled all over his hands and his shoulders were bruised black and blue.

* * *

Santana's feet were aching with every step by the time they reached the Williamsburg Bridge at the south end of Manhattan. They'd gotten lost three times (it was difficult to navigate in almost total darkness) and narrowly escaped seven lootings, and all the walking and running had set Santana's feet on fire. She was sure Rachel and Dani felt the same way, though neither of them complained beyond a slight wince every time they took a step. After all, they'd been traveling for almost two hours (Santana thought so, at least, but couldn't tell for sure) and they were only about halfway to Bushwick.

Stepping onto the bridge, Santana shivered in the cold breeze wafting up from the East River, and felt Dani and Rachel instinctively huddle closer for warmth. Santana craned her neck for a moment to look through the bridge's rails at the black water below, reflecting nothing, and saw the outline of a motorboat floating aimlessly downriver.

"What I wouldn't give for a heated blanket right now," Dani muttered, her teeth chattering. Santana wished she'd brought a sweater with her to work that morning.

"My feet hurt," Rachel remarked faintly, sounding as if she didn't expect anyone to hear her.

Santana had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes as she reached up to rub warmth into her arms. Rachel _would_ be the first to whine about it.

But holy _hell_ , Santana's feet really did hurt.

The breeze buffeted their clothes and hair as they trekked across the bridge, making their shoulders shake in the cold until they stepped onto the solid ground of Brooklyn. Rachel stopped suddenly, forcing Dani and Santana to halt as well.

"Okay," Rachel said, leaning down to unzip the red fake leather boots. "I can _not_ walk in these for another mile."

Santana held up a hand. "Whoa, so you're just going to walk through Brooklyn with no shoes at all?"

"I already have massive blisters and I'm pretty sure I also developed plantar fasciitis in just the last hour," Rachel countered, balancing on one leg and lifting her foot to yank the boot off. "No shoes is better than these."

"Well, then no crying when you step on a rusty nail or a druggie's discarded syringe," Santana shrugged.

"I'll be fine," Rachel insisted, tugging off her other boot.

* * *

"Burt, you've been trying to turn on your phone for the last two hours," Carole said, stepping out onto the porch with a burning candle in her hand.

"And I'm going to _keep_ trying until I can get ahold of Kurt," Burt replied flatly from where he sat on the porch steps.

Carole sighed and sank down to sit next to him. "Burt, this is probably just a fluke that happened here. I'm sure New York is fine."

"I'll believe it when I see emergency services from Columbus drive into town."

Carole pressed her lips together, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders in the chill. She set the candle on the step beside her.

Burt let out a huff, giving up on his phone for the time being. He rubbed a palm over his forehead in agitation.

"I bet Kurt's just fine." Carole reached over to consolingly squeeze his knee.

"There aren't any planes, Carole," Burt said quietly. "I've been watching, and not a single plane has flown over. There's no cars, no planes, no phones… This is more than just Lima."

Carole swallowed audibly. "Do you think it's a terrorist attack or something?"

Burt shook his head. "I don't know. It just… it feels wrong. It's not just a blackout."

Carole stared up at the blackened sky, lit only by the stars. At least the stars were still there. "Everything will be better tomorrow," she said. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

Blaine beat the car until his muscles were numb and he could no longer lift his arms, then sank to the ground, his chest heaving. Cooper didn't move. Blaine leaned back against the underside of the car, exhausted, and he looked upwards at the stars, praying for a rescue helicopter. He wasn't that far from home, but he didn't want to leave Cooper behind.

"Blaine?"

Blaine's head snapped up so quickly that it hurt his neck. Will Schuester was standing a few feet away, his face streaked with soot and his clothes dirty.

"Blaine, oh my God, are you okay?" Will knelt next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I-I, uh…" Blaine blinked, suddenly feeling like he was about to cry. "I'm fine."

Will looked down, seeing the open wounds on Blaine's hand and forearm. "Come on, we need to get you home."

"I'm not leaving."

Will's eyes flickered to Cooper, his mouth pressing tightly shut when he recognized Cooper's face. "Blaine, you need to get home. Come with me, I'll take you."

"No, I – I can't—" Blaine shook his head. "I'm staying."

Will's hand tightened around Blaine's upper arm, pulling him to his feet. Blaine dug his heels into the pavement.

"Let go of me!" he shrieked. "I'm not leaving!"

"Blaine, it's not safe here—"

Frantically, Blaine beat his hands against Will's chest and arms, leaving sticky, bloody prints all over his teacher's shirt. "Let _go!_ "

Will seized Blaine's bruised shoulders, looking him directly in the eye. "Cooper's gone, Blaine! There's nothing you can do!" he shouted. "You need to go home!"

" _SHUT UP!_ "

Will refused to let go, still pulling him away from Cooper's body. "Blaine, I promise, someone will come and get him, but for now you need to _go home_."

Blaine screamed as Will dragged him along the road, fighting him every step of the way. He scratched and hit and kicked as much as he could, but his limbs were already fatigued and his teacher was much bigger than he was. Eventually, Blaine couldn't scream anymore, his throat feeling torn to shreds, and Will pulled him out of town and into the dark.

* * *

As the three girls headed deeper into Brooklyn, it only grew darker around them. The moon wasn't up and the only lights they could see were the stars overhead and the occasional candle or kerosene lamp in a window. They huddled close to stay as warm as possible, but the cool spring night raised goosebumps on their exposed arms and legs and even though their breath wasn't fogging, their skin was icy to the touch.

"I'm fr-freezing," Dani said through chattering teeth.

"Where is everybody?" Rachel asked, clutching her boots in her hand.

"Probably looting or hiding at home," Santana replied absentmindedly, squinting at the street signs. "Come on, this way." She turned down a smaller street in the vague direction of Bushwick.

"Screw it," Dani said, stopping in her tracks. "I can't wear these anymore either." She reached down and unzipped her boots.

"Told you," Rachel muttered. Dani ignored her.

"Holy _crap_ , the ground's cold." Dani gave herself a shake as her bare feet pressed into the pavement. "Still, better than before." She tucked her boots into the crook of her arm so that she could hold them while blowing warmth into her hands.

"God, this city is so creepy in the dark," Rachel said as they started walking again.

"Everywhere's creepy in the dark," Santana remarked. "Especially when it's littered with abandoned cars."

"I feel like we're in the beginning of _The Walking Dead_."

"Dani, don't _say_ that!" Rachel gasped. "I'm freaked out enough as it is."

"If there are redneck zombies on their way to eat us right now, I'm going to be pissed," Santana drawled. "I do not need to fight off Hungry freaking Boo-Boo from eating my brains."

Rachel grimaced at the mental picture. "Where do you think Kurt is now?"

"He's probably on his way home," Dani assured her. "Just like us."

"He'll be there when we get—" Santana was abruptly cut off as Rachel shrieked, lurching forward and barely catching herself on Dani's shoulder.

Dani pulled Rachel upright. "Whoa, you okay?"

"I – I…" Rachel stammered, her teeth gritted and her voice shaking. She was putting all of her weight on her right foot, holding the left a few inches above the ground and clutching Dani for support. "I think I stepped on a piece of glass."

Santana swore under her breath, resisting the urge to say _I TOLD you this would happen_. She reached over and gripped Rachel's other arm to support her. "We're not going to be able to see anything here."

"I don't feel good…"

"Shut up, Berry," Santana snapped, glancing around the street for anything to help. A little further up the block, there was a convenience store with its windows smashed in. "There's a store up there that might have bandages. Come on."

"What, are you going to steal bandages for me?" Rachel asked through clenched teeth, trying to breathe evenly as Dani and Santana supported her weight. The three of them hobbled up the road, weaving around the abandoned vehicles.

The front of the store was wide open, the windows and door destroyed. "Santana, we can't steal from—" Rachel started as Santana left her clinging to Dani, stepping through the window.

"Hey, people have been looting TVs and iPods all damn night," Santana argued, already inside the store. "I think a little First Aid won't be such a big deal."

"Get some water too," Dani said, shifting Rachel's weight against her. "Okay, Rachel, I need you to sit down for a minute so I can put my boots back on."

Rachel nodded, squeezing her eyes shut and holding her breath as Dani lowered her to the sidewalk. She whimpered as her injured foot lightly scraped the concrete. Dani brushed her feet off and quickly zipped her boots back on, then helped Rachel work one of her boots back onto her undamaged foot.

"What do you want to do with this one?" Dani asked, holding up the right boot.

Rachel shook her head, wincing. "Just leave it. After tonight, I don't want to ever see these things again."

"The feeling's mutual," Dani agreed, tossing the boot to the side before turning to call over her shoulder. "Santana, you find anything?"

"Yeah," Santana replied from the depths of the shop, invisible in the shadows. "People are idiots; all they ever steal is beer. Plenty of good stuff left. I haven't found any First Aid though."

"My foot really hurts," Rachel said, her jaw held tight. She was trying not to cry. "I think I hit a tendon or something."

"You'll be fine," Dani promised. "Once we get home we can light up some candles and treat it."

Rachel let out a pained huff of a laugh. "A candlelit medical treatment? How romantic."

Santana re-emerged from the shop then, carrying two full plastic bags. "I couldn't find any bandages, Rachel, so you'll have to wait until we get home," she said. "But I got water and pretty much the entire stock of Power Bars, so who's hungry?"

For ten minutes, the three girls allowed themselves to sit on the sidewalk and rest, eating energy bars and re-hydrating. They silently watched the sky above, all three of them hoping a plane would fly past, signaling that they hadn't been left completely alone.


	3. In The Shadow Of The Watertowers

It took the girls another two hours to make it all the way back to the loft, and by the time their apartment building stood looming and dark in front of them, Rachel had nearly passed out.

"You doing okay, Rachel?" Dani asked, tugging on Rachel's arm as she and Santana half-carried her to the building's front door.

"I… I f-feel dizzy…" Rachel stuttered, sounding almost like she was falling asleep.

Santana hefted Rachel's weight up. "Come on, Berry, quit being such a drama queen and keep your foot up. We're home. Two more minutes and we can put a Band-Aid on it."

Dani wrenched the door open, holding it back with her shoulder as they struggled to maneuver the three of them inside all at once. The door swung shut behind them, plunging them into absolute and total darkness, without even the stars to light their way. Santana led the way up the stairs, familiar with the curve of the wall and the height of each individual step. With some difficult navigation and a _lot_ of muscle power, Dani and Santana were able to pull Rachel up the stairwell to the loft door.

Fumbling for her key in the dark, Santana finally unlocked the apartment and pulled it back. "Let's get her onto the couch," she said, Rachel's arm tightening around her as they crossed the threshold. Santana heard Rachel's foot drag on the floor for a moment and felt her flinch, but Rachel didn't make a sound.

They eased Rachel onto the sofa, Santana immediately leaving Dani to help Rachel prop her injured foot up on the coffee table. Setting the bags of water and energy bars they'd carried for the second half of their journey onto the kitchen table, Santana rummaged through the kitchen drawers in search of matches.

"I think I'm bleeding on the carpet," Rachel commented quietly.

"Bleed all you want," Santana flapped a hand over her shoulder. "I've been begging Hummel to get rid of that ugly rug for ages." Her fingers closed around the box of matches they kept in the drawer by the stove. "Rachel, where does Kurt keep that kerosene lamp he got at the flea market?"

"Um… in his room somewhere, I think," Rachel replied.

Santana ducked behind Kurt's curtain, striking a match and holding it up to light the space as much as possible. She spotted the old-fashioned lamp sitting atop Kurt's bureau as decoration and quickly walked over to light it. Gently placing the glass chimney back over the small flame, Santana turned up the wick and smiled to herself in relief as, for the first time since just before the power vanished, light washed over her.

She carried the lamp and the matchbox back to the living room, setting them on the table beside Rachel's foot so that they could see the damage.

"Holy…" Dani exhaled, her eyes widening at the wound in Rachel's heel.

Santana felt her stomach twist at the sight of it, and she swallowed the urge to throw up.

"Is it bad?" Rachel asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

"Well," Santana paused. "The good news is you weren't overreacting."

Letting out a heavy breath and steeling her nerves, Santana knelt by the coffee table so that she could examine the injury more closely. Rachel's heel was slowly dripping blood onto the tabletop, and a jagged piece of glass as long and wide as Santana's thumb was protruding from the torn skin.

"Okay, Dani, can you run to the bathroom and grab a couple of towels, and get a bottle of water," Santana requested, pulling the lamp closer. "And the vodka from the fridge." Dani nodded once and did as she was asked.

"Kurt's not here," Rachel said faintly, her voice wavering almost imperceptibly.

Santana sighed. She'd been so preoccupied with getting Rachel's foot treated that she hadn't even noticed their third roommate wasn't there. "I'm sure he's fine."

Dani returned with the supplies before Rachel could say anything further. Santana carefully placed a folded hand towel under Rachel's heel and poured a small amount of water over the wound, making Rachel hiss through her teeth in pain.

"Relax, I'm just rinsing it off before I do anything."

"What are you going to do?"

"The piece of glass has to come out, then we'll wrap it up as best we can."

"Do you have a First Aid kit?" Dani asked.

"Yes," Rachel answered.

Santana shook her head. "No, we have a box of Band-Aids. You need stitches. We'll go to the hospital as soon as we can. Rachel, hold your foot back," she directed, pushing on Rachel's toes. She twisted the cap off the bottle of vodka and splashed a bit over the blood-flecked glass, making Rachel's leg jerk up. Rachel yelped.

"Okay," Santana said, brushing her hands off on the skirt of her uniform. "Okay, Rachel, I'm going to take the glass out now. On the count of three."

Dani quickly went to sit beside Rachel on the couch, wrapping her hand around Rachel's fingers.

"Deep breath," Santana said, taking the shard of glass between her fingertips.

Rachel clenched her jaw, humming a shaky, tuneless note under her breath.

"One." In a single fast movement, Santana gave the glass a sharp, forceful tug, and it came loose with an awful, gut-wrenching _squelch_.

A scream ripped from Rachel's throat.

* * *

Will kept a firm hand on Blaine's shoulder as they trekked through the dark outskirts of Lima, only speaking up to make sure they were going in the right direction to Blaine's house. Blaine had stopped fighting a while after they'd lost sight of the plane wreckage, and had resigned to quietly walking beside Will with his arms hugging his abdomen.

"Blaine, are you okay?" Will ventured at one point, though he knew it was an idiotic question.

Blaine didn't answer him.

They reached the bottom of Blaine's driveway and saw a few candles burning in the front window, though the rest of the house was dark. "I'll walk you up," Will said, steering Blaine onto the path leading up to the house.

"Blaine?!" called a voice from the door. "Oh, God, _Blaine!_ " A woman rushed down the steps to meet them, throwing her arms around Blaine the moment he was within reach. "Are you all right?" She squinted at Will in the shadows just long enough to see that he wasn't Cooper. "Blaine, where's your brother?"

"Mrs. Anderson, I'm so sorry…" Will started. "Cooper, he—"

"Tell me he's okay."

Will pressed his mouth shut, at a complete loss.

"Mom," Blaine said softly.

Mrs. Anderson's body began to shake, the movement barely visible in the darkness, and she pulled her son closer to her side. "Thank you," she said, "for bringing Blaine home."

* * *

The night seemed to drag on for ages as Santana and Dani sat at the kitchen table, the kerosene lamp set between them and Santana's legs resting in Dani's lap. They'd wrapped Rachel's foot tightly in strips of cloth torn from an old exercise shirt, then let Rachel drink a shot of vodka and fall asleep on the couch, her foot still propped on the coffee table.

It was disturbingly quiet, apart from Rachel's light snoring. There were no sirens, no sounds of traffic, none of the typical noise of nighttime in Brooklyn, and neither Dani nor Santana felt much like sleeping. Santana had changed out of her uniform and lent Dani a set of clothes as well, the both of them huddling under oversized sweatshirts Santana usually had reserved only for days when she didn't leave the apartment.

Dani looked over at Rachel's sleeping form hidden under several blankets. "You think she'll be okay?"

Santana glanced over her shoulder for a moment. "Yeah, sure. I mean, we stopped the bleeding and cleaned it out pretty well. We'll take her to the hospital once the power comes back." She rested her chin in her hand, gazing out the blackened windowpane. "I wonder what time it is."

Dani peeked at her wrist. "Almost five in the morning."

"How is your watch still working?"

"It's a wind-up," Dani replied, tapping the watch's face with a fingernail. "No battery." She stretched her legs out beneath the table. "Man, my legs are sore."

Santana made a noise of agreement in her throat, reaching for a bottle of water from the bags they'd carried back.

"Santana, aren't you worried about Kurt?"

"Why?" Santana frowned. "You think something happened to him?"

Dani shrugged with one shoulder, leaning back in her chair and intertwining her fingers. "I don't know. A lot of stuff happened to a lot of people; it's hard not to think about, at least."

Santana shook her head. "I'm sure he's fine," she said, wondering in the back of her mind how many times she'd said that exact phrase in the hours since the blackout.

"Look," Dani changed the subject, nodding towards the kitchen window. "The sun's coming up."

Sure enough, the stars had faded and the sky was gradually growing lighter from behind the silhouette of New York in the distance. Santana lifted her sore legs out of Dani's lap and crossed the kitchen, pulling the window up and swinging herself over the ledge onto the fire escape outside. She reached back to give Dani a hand through the window as the sky above them slowly turned pink.

Leaning their elbows against the rail, the two of them watched the sunlight silently and steadily flood the city. Neither of them said a word, both grateful and reassured that the sun was still there.

* * *

The sun had swung high in the sky by the time Rachel came back around, and Santana brought a bottle of water to where she sat on the couch. "How's your foot?" she asked, sitting in the adjacent armchair as Rachel took a long drink.

Rachel swallowed half the bottle before she replaced the cap and set it to the side. "Hurts," she answered. "But better than last night."

"Good."

"Thank you," Rachel said. "For taking care of it."

Santana shrugged. "I have a lot of siblings; I'm used to people getting injured."

"Well, thanks just the same." Rachel glanced around the apartment, her eyes scanning every lamp in sight. "Did the power come back on?"

"Nope, not yet. Probably will at some point today."

"Is Kurt back?"

Santana shook her head.

"Where's Dani?"

"Crashed in my bed."

"Didn't you sleep?"

Santana shrugged. "Wasn't tired."

Rachel quirked an eyebrow. "We walked like ten miles last night, if you count all the times we got lost. How are you not tired?"

Santana only gave another shrug in response.

Rachel let out a long breath. "I hate to ask this," she started. "But… I have to pee."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Fine." She stood up and leaned over to wrap an arm around Rachel's upper back, letting Rachel hang onto her neck as Santana pulled her upright. "We've got to get you some crutches or something, because I will not help you with this every time you need to tinkle. You are _not_ allowed to be a diva right now."

Rachel only chuckled.

They were halfway to the bathroom when the door suddenly gave a loud rattle, and the girls froze in their tracks. It was quiet for all of two seconds before the door rattled again, rocking back and forth slightly on its rollers.

"Someone's trying to get in," Rachel whispered, her limbs rigid.

There was a massive reverberating _bang!_ as whoever was on the other side gave the door a frustrated kick. Santana swallowed and helped Rachel to sit in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, then made a beeline for the drawer where they kept the knives.

"You're going to stab them?!" Rachel hissed, her eyes wide.

"It might be looters," Santana insisted under her breath as the door _banged_ again. She walked to the door, leaning her ear close to try to hear anything distinctive from outside.

Dani came into the living room from behind Santana's curtain, her hair and clothes disheveled. "What's going on?"

Santana pressed a finger to her lips, one palm on the door handle and the other clutching the knife, holding it poised at chest-level.

" _Rachel?_ " called a muffled voice from the other side. " _Santana? Hello?_ "

The three girls in unison let out a heave of breath in relief, Santana dropped the knife to her side and hurried to unlock the door, quickly yanking it open.

"Jesus, Hummel, don't—" Santana stopped short, her jaw going slack.

Kurt stood just outside the door, out of breath and his clothes dirty, the entire side of his head, neck, and shoulder caked with dried blood. His eyes flickered down to see the blade gripped in Santana's fist.

"...Were you just about to stab me?"


	4. In These Bodies

"What the _hell_ happened to you?!"

"Why were you going to stab me?!"

"I thought you were a looter!" Santana insisted, dropping the knife onto the kitchen table.

"Looters don't knock!" Kurt argued.

" _You_ didn't knock!"

Dani finally cut in sharply, raising her voice. "Hey! How about you stop squabbling and actually deal with the problem?" She pointed to Kurt's head injury.

There was a badly bruised laceration on his temple, and the hair surrounding it was caked with blood in a wide streak down the side of his neck. Kurt lightly prodded it with a slight wince. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said.

"Kurt, you look like you lost a gallon of blood," Rachel deadpanned.

"Head wounds bleed a lot," he waved her off, still out of breath. "I'm fine." He made a beeline for the kitchen table, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging the entire thing in a matter of thirty seconds. "Please tell me we have food; I haven't eaten since yesterday lunchtime."

Rachel handed him a Power Bar. "That's all we have that doesn't require the stove or microwave." He didn't seem to care, gratefully tearing it open. "What happened?"

"Got caught in a minor riot back near the Gershwin Theater, which is where I lost my keys," he replied, taking one of the chairs at the table with Rachel. Dani dumped the contents of a few water bottles into a large mixing bowl and retrieved a washcloth from the bathroom as he spoke. "People were looting like crazy. I was just trying to get past them, but someone kind of hit me with a baseball bat."

Dani frowned, sitting in the chair next to him and soaking the washcloth in the bowl. "A baseball bat gave you this cut?"

"The bat was broken when it hit me."

Dani made a face, wringing out the cloth. "Okay, lean back." She began to gently scrub the dried blood from Kurt's skin and hair.

"Where were you all night?" Rachel asked. "We were worried sick."

Kurt flinched and hissed through his teeth when Dani brushed over the cut. "Isabel convinced me to stay the night in the office," he explained. "I wanted to leave right away, but she said it wasn't safe, I'd get hurt, et cetera. Long story short, I left first thing this morning and I still got hurt— _Ow!_ "

"Sorry," Dani said, pressing a little too hard on Kurt's wound.

Kurt huffed and forced himself to stay still as Dani scraped the dried blood away from his skin. "Do you guys have any idea what happened to the power?"

"If we could watch the news we might," Santana said flatly. "But no. Any theories?"

Kurt shrugged. "Terrorist attack?" he suggested. "I keep thinking I should Google it, but that's obviously a bad plan." He coughed, his throat sounding hoarse and dry, and reached for another water bottle.

"Careful, we have to ration that," Dani said.

"I'm sure the power will be back way before we have to worry about rationing anything," Rachel countered.

Kurt took a long swig. "Did you guys run into any trouble on your way back?"

"We didn't get caught in any riots," Santana said, "but Little Miss Genius over here took off her shoes and stepped on glass." She nodded pointedly at Rachel, who indignantly slapped Santana's arm with the back of her hand.

"Those boots were _killing_ me!" she protested.

"And how'd the glass treat you?"

Kurt glanced down at Rachel's feet, noticing the bloodstained improvised bandage wrapped around her left heel for the first time. " _Jesus_ , Rachel!"

"It's fine, Santana got the glass out."

"I'm a full-on Army field medic," Santana declared.

"By the way, Santana, I still need to pee."

Santana rolled her eyes and stood to help Rachel to the bathroom.

* * *

Mercedes wiped sweat from her face, peeking through the Venetian blinds covering the window to her tiny apartment, feeling more grateful than ever that her door had two locks on the inside. Since the power had gone out, she'd managed to stay safe inside the apartment, but her roommate had never come home and without the electricity to run the air conditioner, the building was quickly heating up, baking under the sun. The faucets wouldn't work (the pumps were long dead) and Mercedes had already run out of water.

This kind of crap _would_ happen during a rare April heat wave, Mercedes thought bitterly.

She swallowed nervously, chewing on her lip as she scanned the area outside through the gap in her blinds. She hadn't seen anyone in the street below for a while – at least, no one alive. A man's corpse lay on the pavement sprawled across the yellow line, just beginning to bloat under the sun's glare. Mercedes hadn't actually seen him die, but from the condition of his limbs, he had probably been trampled.

For what had to be the thousandth time, Mercedes pulled her phone from her pocket and pressed the power button, her lips pressing together when it did nothing in response. She tried not to think about what Ohio might look like now, or where her parents and brothers might be. She wasn't an idiot. She knew the blackout wasn't exclusive to Los Angeles. Planes had crashed in the streets, dropping from the sky in almost perfect unison, and since then she'd not seen anything electronic work.

There were no Army Humvees plowing down the streets, carrying the National Guard to rescue people from their own homes.

There were no police officers, no ambulances, no Red Cross helicopters.

There was a dead man already rotting in the street right in front of her apartment building, and she swallowed and turned away from the window as a black crow swooped down and perched hungrily on the corpse's chest.

There was no one coming to help.

* * *

The sky was beginning to grow dark again over New York as Kurt and the girls sorted through the contents of the refrigerator, food spread out over the kitchen table in a half-organized chaos.

Rachel paused to stare out the window at the bright gold and pink streaks across the clouds, the corners of her mouth turning down in disappointment. "I was hoping the power would be back on by now," she sighed.

"Midtown's probably in shambles," Kurt added, dropping a no-longer-frozen package of ground beef into the quickly filling trashcan at the end of the table. The blood had been scrubbed from his skin, his bloodstained shirt thrown out and exchanged for a hoodie, and his cut had been taped over with three large Band-Aids.

Santana abruptly dropped the cans she was scrutinizing for expiration dates back onto the tabletop with a solid _thunk_. "Does anybody else think we're being a little too casual about this, or am I the only sane one here?"

Dani and Kurt exchanged a wary look. "About… what, exactly?" Kurt prompted.

"Uh, this entire city's gone up in flames in less than twenty-four hours," Santana said slowly, her eyebrows sharply pulled down. "And none of us can call home. And we're just sitting here sorting the food that'll keep from the food that'll go bad like we've done this before."

Rachel swallowed, her hands pressed flat against the table. "Santana, it's just a power outage," she said.

"No," Santana shook her head, her voice growing harsher. "No, a power outage is when the power grid goes dead. Are we just going to ignore the fact that all of our phones died simultaneously? Are we _not_ going to talk about the helicopter that crashed right in front of the diner?" She pressed her lips together for a moment, and for half a second Kurt saw her chin tremble. "This is not a power outage."

"Well, what do you expect us to do about it?" Rachel asked, throwing her hands up.

"I don't know, maybe panic just a _little_?"

Kurt paused, leaning forward with his arms braced against the back of a chair. "Santana, we're all terrified," he said gently. "What good is panicking going to do?"

Santana let out a heavy huff of breath, backing away from the table and raking her fingers through her hair. "You're right," she acquiesced. "Sorry. I'm just tired."

Dani stepped around Rachel and took Santana's arm. "Come on, let's go to bed," she urged quietly. "You haven't slept since yesterday morning."

"Kurt and I can finish up here," Rachel offered, gesturing to the pile of cans and various food products strewn across the table.

Santana rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. "I need to change Rachel's bandage."

"I'll do it," Kurt cut in. "Go get some rest."

Dani nodded gratefully to Kurt and Rachel as she guided Santana out of the room, one arm looped around Santana's middle back.

Kurt grabbed the rest of the cloth strips Santana had torn and set on the kitchen counter, then swung a chair over closer to Rachel and sat, patting his knee. "Okay, Rachel, let me see your foot."

Rachel leaned back in her seat, wincing as she raised her leg to rest her foot on Kurt's thigh. Kurt delicately unwound the cloth strips from around her heel, his lip curling at the smell of old blood as he dropped the soiled makeshift bandages onto the table and muttered something about it being highly unsanitary. He lifted her ankle up to get a better view of the wound in the diminishing evening light filtering in through the window.

"Rachel, this looks… really nasty," he said grimly.

Rachel leaned her head against her fist, propping her elbow on the table. "Yeah, I know."

"You'll need stitches eventually."

"I swear to God, Kurt, if you sew me up post-apocalypse movie style, I _will_ kill you," she said in what was probably supposed to be a joking tone. Kurt could hear her voice shake.

"Relax, I don't have the stomach for that," he replied, wrapping a strip snugly around her heel (Rachel flinched, letting out a small whimper at the renewed pressure).

Rachel remained quiet as Kurt finished bandaging her foot, carefully tying it around her ankle so that it wouldn't slip. As he finished, she spoke so softly that for a few seconds Kurt wasn't entirely sure he'd heard her. "I miss my dads."

Kurt swallowed, leaning forward to wrap his fingers around her hand. He knew how she felt; the question of whether or not his parents (and Blaine) were all right had been hanging heavily in his chest for a long time.

"They'll be okay, Rachel," he said, mostly to reassure himself. "Promise."

* * *

Blaine watched the pavement pass under his feet in a daze, his mother gripping his hand as they walked toward downtown Lima. Any other day, he'd probably tug his fingers out of her grasp in embarrassment, but at this point he didn't really care. His dad strode silently beside them, pushing along a collapsible gurney that they'd stolen from a capsized ambulance a mile back. The air still carried the putrid stench of burning fuel and leaking engine lines, even several blocks away from the crashed plane, and it made Blaine's stomach churn.

Under the sky alit with bright orange streaks in the sunset, Lima had been turned into a ghost town. Storefronts had been smashed and gutted, cars left crooked in the street, and the few people that they saw carried themselves furtively, like mice darting for cover. The blackout seemed to have caused an almost literal shift in the earth.

"Blaine, do you remember where he is?" his mom asked, her fingers squeezing slightly as her voice cracked.

"Gina, for God's sake," said his dad, maneuvering the gurney around two cars that had collided in the middle of an intersection.

Blaine swallowed his nausea and turned down the adjacent street. Up ahead loomed the mangled and half-blackened shell of the airplane, casting a skeletal shadow over the block. The fuselage was on its side, one wing stretching up into the air like a steeple. The other wing, ripped from the hull mid-air, protruded from a building two blocks in the other direction, half-buried in the brick wall.

Gina's shoulders dropped, the air rushing from her lungs. "Oh, C-Cooper, baby," she cried, letting go of Blaine's hand so that her fingers could cover her mouth.

Cooper was just where Blaine had left him, and Blaine wanted to scream at the top of his lungs until they withered away inside his ribs.

Timothy set the gurney aside and placed a hand on Gina's back, wrapping an arm around Blaine's shoulders. "Come on," he said gently, his voice thin and hoarse. "Let's get him out of there."

Without a word, the three of them pushed against the underside of the overturned car, their muscles straining to roll it just a foot or two away. Blaine gritted his teeth, throwing his body into it as much as he could and ignoring the sting of the scabbed-over patch of skin on his hand. A bird called from somewhere overhead.

The silence was broken by a sob from Gina as she clenched her jaw and pushed on the car with all her strength.

Slowly, the car gave a small groan and tipped back until it rolled onto its roof, its windows shattering as the weight suddenly shifted, and it lay there upended and slightly rocking back and forth. Cooper's blood had been smeared across the side.

Timothy squeezed Blaine's shoulder. "Help me get him onto the stretcher," he said, retrieving the gurney and collapsing it so that it lay flat against the ground beside Cooper.

Blaine felt the air tighten around his mouth and nose like he was in a vacuum, and his chest constricted until he could barely breathe, but he clenched his fists and stepped forward to do as his father asked. They carefully turned Cooper onto his back, then Blaine gripped Cooper's mangled legs and helped Timothy lift him onto the gurney.

"Where are we…" Blaine trailed off for a moment. "Where are we taking him?"

Timothy pulled the gurney up so that it stood back on its wheels, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Cooper's upper body, covering his face. "We'll find a nice place for him to be buried. Away from all this."

"The cemetery?"

Timothy shook his head and swiped a palm over his eyes, his voice thick. "Somewhere nicer."

Blaine realized with a jolt that he'd never seen his father cry, and terror suddenly flooded his body from head to toe.

* * *

Mercedes wasn't willing to venture out into the city until nearly sundown, an empty backpack on her shoulders and a pack of matches in her pocket. Hugging her chest, she worked her way through the streets as the light gradually bled out of the sky, leaving burning red streaks of clouds behind it. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her heartbeat was practically all she could hear as she walked. Her mouth had been dry for hours, her tongue feeling like sandpaper, and she decided that for the rest of her life she would always keep a well-stocked supply of water in her kitchen.

At last she came to the large supermarket where she normally bought her groceries and half-jogged across the parking lot, disliking the feeling of being so out in the open. The automatic doors were no longer functioning, but she stuck her hand between them and wrenched them open with a grunt of effort.

Inside was dark, and it was nearly impossible to see anything beyond a few feet away from the door where she'd come in. Luckily, she was familiar enough with the store to remember where most of the sections were, and she headed straight for the aisle where they kept the bottled drinks. She struck a match, cupping her hand around it to protect the flame as she fumbled through the shelves in search of bottled water, feeling like she'd struck gold when she found it. She twisted the cap off a full two-liter bottle and drank greedily, swallowing as if she'd not had water in a year.

Mercedes splashed a little on her face and the back of her neck to cool herself down, kneeling to shove a couple bottles into her backpack. She yanked two one-gallon jugs off the shelf as well.

It had been barely a day since the blackout, and Mercedes would never again take water for granted.

Her backpack was nearly full – canned goods, granola bars, anything long lasting and calorie-heavy – when she ran out of matches. She mentally berated herself for not stocking up on matches before food, but she managed to fumble her bag closed in the dark, already looking forward to heading home.

There was a resounding _click_ behind her, and something cold and metal pressed into the small of her back.

"Whatever money you have on you, give it to me," snarled a man's voice close to her ear.

Mercedes froze, the air in her lungs turning to ice. "I-I don't have—"

" _Now!_ "

The shout reverberated into the void of the empty and massive room, and Mercedes quickly lifted her hands. "I don't!" she swore. "I don't— I don't have anything. Please, I just want to go home. P-Please."

Mercedes yelped, flinching as the man's hand was suddenly touching her, roaming quickly over her body as his other fist kept the gun kept pressed firmly to her back.

"Please—" she repeated.

The man's hand finally lifted away from her, and there was another _click_ from the gun. "Go on, get out of here," he said gruffly, sounding almost… apologetic?

Mercedes didn't pause to think on it. She quickly slung her backpack onto her shoulder, grabbed her jugs of water, and blindly ran for the door.

Miraculously, she made it all the way back to her apartment before she broke down into heaving, wracking sobs. She couldn't stay here.


	5. Neverwhere

_DAY 3_

More than anything, Rachel was bored.  Although she learned she could briefly hobble around the loft using only her toes and the ball of her foot, while keeping her heel away from the ground, it was difficult to stand for more than a few minutes, and so she had no choice but to spend the majority of her time sitting either on the couch or at the kitchen table.  With every kind of clock they owned gone dead, it was impossible to tell how quickly the hours were passing, and the minutes dragged on in a hellish stretch.

Lunch for Rachel consisted of canned pear halves eaten straight from the can with a fork, the juice messily dribbling down her chin.  Dani, Santana, and Kurt had gone out to hunt for supplies early that morning and hadn’t yet returned, and the worry that something had gone wrong sat uneasily in her gut.  She supposed that they were probably fine, but the shouts of looters were still heavy on her mind and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something _would_ go wrong sooner rather than later.

She didn’t know what was going on – where the power had gone or why she couldn’t call home to make sure her dads were unharmed – but she wished she could be doing more than sitting at her kitchen table eating canned pears.  At least the others were able to go out and search for supplies.

Finally there was a small commotion from the corridor outside, and the door rolled open.  Kurt stumbled in, his arms weighted down with a poorly balanced load of cumbersome objects, including a set of crutches and what looked like a miniature camping stove.  Santana and Dani followed behind, each carrying plastic bags full of food and water.

“Honey, I’m home,” Santana said dryly, dropping her load onto the table and collapsing into the chair next to Rachel in exhaustion.  “The power had better come back before we have to do that again.”

Dani flipped the light switch on the wall a few times, her shoulders slumping in disappointment.

“Did it go okay?” Rachel asked.

Kurt pulled his fingers through his unkempt hair.  “We found these for you,” he said with a forced cheerfulness, handing the crutches over the table to Rachel.  “They’re cripple-chic.”

“Thanks—”

“I’m going to go lie down,” Kurt cut her off abruptly, not meeting her eye.  He strode stiffly away from the kitchen and disappeared behind his curtain.

Santana and Dani exchanged a look as they unpacked the bags, and Rachel looked to them in confusion.  “What’s up with him?” she asked.

Dani swallowed.  “There were a lot more bodies out there than we expected.”

For as long as it took the three girls to unpack and organize the supplies, not one of them said a word.

* * *

The small garage attached to the Hudson-Hummel house was cool and damp since the radiator sat uselessly in the corner.  Burt, desperate for something to do besides drive himself crazy worrying about Kurt, pushed up his sweatshirt sleeves and reached into the engine of his truck.  No matter how many times he turned the key in the ignition, the engine refused to turn over.  His fingers were stained black with oil, and he’d found not a single thing wrong with the car no matter where he looked.  It was simply and inexplicably dead.

He’d pulled the garage door up all the way to let as much sun in as possible, but it was foggy and grey outside and the light was minimal.  A few people had passed the street over the past couple of hours, skirting by like shadowy ghosts in the mist, most likely heading into downtown Lima to scavenge for food and supplies.

“Burt?”

Burt jumped, the back of his head slamming into the truck’s hood.  “OW!”

“Sorry,” said Carole, stepping into the garage and pulling her sweater tighter around her torso.  “You okay?”

Burt rubbed at his skull with the unstained heel of his hand, wincing.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ve done that so often that I think I have a permanent dent.”

Carole prodded the back of his head.  “Seems fine to me,” she said through a smile.  She looked down at the exposed truck engine.  “Any luck with this thing?”

Burt sighed, clicking his tongue against his teeth.  “Nope.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with the truck, but it just won’t start.  I tried everything with your Volvo too; same thing there.”

“Sandra from across the street visited earlier to make sure we were okay,” Carole stated.  “She says that it might have been some kind of electromagnetic pulse or something that knocked the power out.”

Burt flapped a hand.  “I’m no good at physics.”

“She said it’s the only thing that could kill all the batteries.”

“Well, then maybe she’s right.”

Burt had no clue what could cause an electro-magneto pulse or whatever Carole called it, or where the hell it might come from, but in any case he thought it was a little weird that it had been three days and nothing had changed but the weather.  With the fog muffling all the sound from outside, slowly drifting by and chilling the air into an eerie stillness, Burt thought it seemed like the town had dropped from the face of the earth into some kind of strange limbo.

All things considered, Burt supposed it was entirely possible.

* * *

Mercedes’ heart thudded at a terrifying pace beneath her ribs, the pen trembling in her hand as she shakily scrawled a letter to her roommate.  She didn’t want to think about the possibility that Erica was lying dead in the street somewhere at the mercy of the sun and the crows, but since Mercedes had heard gunshots going off in the distance at random intervals it was difficult not to entertain the idea.  She didn’t know why anyone was firing guns at one another, but she wanted nothing to do with it.

So she finished her note briefly explaining where she was going and wishing Erica the best, and she stuck it to the now-useless (and empty) refrigerator and prayed that Erica would eventually come back to find it.

Hefting her heavy backpack onto her shoulders, Mercedes took the handle of her tightly packed suitcase and wheeled it along behind her as she made for the door.  A bead of sweat dripped down the side of her face, and she couldn’t tell if it was just from the heat or from the panic clawing at the inside of her stomach.

She drew a long, deep breath in through her nose and gradually released it, feeling like she should be rationing her oxygen in addition to her food.

 _It’s not too late,_ Mercedes’ thoughts prickled in the back of her brain.  _You can just stay here and hide until all of this blows over.  You'll be safe.  
_

Another slow breath, her blood roaring in her ears.  Despite the heat, her fingertips were ice cold.

No.  She had to leave; she knew that.  Staying in Los Angeles would mean being alone, slowly baking in her apartment until she was no longer able to find food outside.  She’d already had a gun to her back once.  She hated to think what another encounter like that would result in.

Staying was not an option.  It had never been an option, and she was doing herself a favor by realizing that now rather than later.

Mercedes swallowed, her tongue feeling too big for her mouth.  She opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, pausing before letting the door shut to pull her apartment key out of her pocket.  She stared at it for a long moment, debating whether or not she needed to bring it with her.

Then, in the spirit of refusing to allow herself to turn back, Mercedes tossed the key into her empty apartment, and let her front door lock behind her.

* * *

“Do you have any… eights?” Dani sighed boredly from her seat on the floor by the coffee table, opposite from Rachel on the couch.  She idly mixed her cards up in her hand, wondering how the hell anyone had ever survived without electricity for more than twenty-four hours.

“Nope,” Rachel replied.  “Go fish.”

Dani pursed her lips, drawing a card from the pile on the table.  “Your turn.”

“You know, you don’t need to play just to keep me occupied,” Rachel said.  “This game isn’t that much fun with only two people anyways.”

“I’m not,” Dani promised.  “I’m trying to keep _myself_ occupied.  We’ve already sorted and rationed the food, we’ve gotten the supplies we need for the time being, and I’m not tired enough to take a nap, so it doesn’t seem like there’s anything else to be done.”

Rachel shrugged.

“I don’t suppose your bandage needs a change?”

“You sound a little too hopeful to get your fingers on my gross foot wound,” Rachel remarked with a light chuckle.  “And no, I changed it an hour ago.  You could go see if Santana needs help with dinner?”

Dani glanced over to the kitchen window, where she could see Santana cooking with the camp stove out on the fire escape landing.  “You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

Rachel waved a hand, sitting up to gather up the cards.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ll play Solitaire or something.  Go on.”

Dani nodded, pulling herself to her feet.  “Call if you need anything,” she said over her shoulder as she went to join Santana on the fire escape.

“Hey,” Santana greeted her as Dani swung her legs through the window.  “This is actually working like a charm.”  She stirred the small pot resting on the camp stove, the water near boiling.  “First time we’ve gotten hot water since the blackout.  Let’s just hope we don’t get sick of ramen.”

“I’m sure we will, if the power doesn’t come back,” Dani said.  “You need any help at all?”

Santana shook her head.  “No, it’s kind of a one-person job.”

Dani sat on the stairs leading up to the roof of the building, her hands between her knees.  It was a bit strange seeing Santana dressed so… _unimpressively_ was probably the appropriate word.  She wore plain jeans and a thin sweatshirt, and her hair was in a half-hearted twist bun, carefully brushed but unwashed.  Dani could hardly blame her for that; with the pumps for the building’s plumbing long dead, none of them had been able to bathe beyond rinsing off their armpits over a bowl of soapy water in the sink.  Dani didn’t think she’d ever even seen Santana without makeup.

Santana looked at her askance for a moment.  “What are you staring at?”

Dani blinked, straightening up.  “Nothing, sorry.  Spaced out.”

Santana ripped open a ramen package and dumped the contents into the boiling water.  “If you’re bored, you can go see what Kurt’s up to.  He went up to the roof like an hour ago.”

Dani stood up, eager for the chance to do something rather than just sit and feel useless, and quickly ascended the steps up to the ladder at the top of the fire escape.  Scaling the handful of rungs and carefully climbing over the raised edge of the roof, Dani saw Kurt standing at the far side of the building, looking out across Brooklyn toward the river and Manhattan beyond.

“Hey,” Dani called as she approached, not wanting to startle him.  He turned around and gave a small wave, allowing Dani to walk up and lean on the short wall beside him.  “What are you doing?”

Kurt squinted into the sun, which was just beginning to touch the skyline in the west.  “I’ve never seen the city this quiet,” he said.

Dani made a noise of agreement in her throat, musing aloud, “More than eight million people, and none of them making a sound.”

Kurt was silent for a long time, apparently deep in thought as the sun inched lower in the sky.  There was a light breeze that buffeted their clothes, and Dani spotted a flock of pigeons swooping up from a park several blocks away.

“We should leave.”

Dani’s gaze snapped back to Kurt, not sure she’d heard him correctly.  “What?  Why?”

Kurt straightened his back, tracing an invisible pattern on the wall with his finger.  “Santana was right,” he said, and it almost sounded like it pained him to admit it.  He gestured to the empty skyline.  “There’s no planes.  No helicopters.  I was up here last night too and I didn’t even see any satellites.”  He bit his lip, shaking his head.  “There were _riots_ in Manhattan, and no one’s come to help.”

Dani didn’t know what to say, and a cold heavy rock was settling into the pit of her stomach.

Kurt scratched at his forehead nervously.  “My point is, it’s not just New York,” he continued.  “It might be the whole country.  It might be everywhere.  I don’t know.  Either way, we can’t just sit here and wait until someone breaks into our apartment to steal our food – which, by the way, we _will_ run out of eventually.” 

He let out a heavy breath, and Dani wondered how long he’d been running over this in his head. 

“I need to know my parents are okay.”  He swallowed, his voice cracking.  “I’m sure Santana’s just as worried about the same thing, and Rachel too.”

“Kurt…” Dani started carefully.  “That means walking.  To Ohio.  Rachel can’t even stand.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“It’ll take weeks.”

“If it means knowing our families are okay, then it’s worth it.”  He chewed on the insides of his cheeks, looking over to her and meeting her eye for the first time since she’d climbed onto the roof.  “Are you going to go home?”

Dani’s stomach abruptly twisted painfully in her abdomen, and she shook her head, biting back an unexpected sting in her eyes.  “No,” she said.  “N-No, my parents kicked me out of the house.  I don’t think they’d want to see me even if I did walk all the way back to Tennessee.”

The look in Kurt’s eyes was something akin to pity.  “You’d be welcome to come with us,” he said.

Dani nodded wordlessly in gratitude.

“Come on,” he said, tilting his head back in the direction of the fire escape.  “We can all talk it over during dinner.”


	6. Foggy Nights

"I think we should leave."

Simultaneously, Rachel and Santana stopped eating, their forks clinking against their bowls as they stared at Kurt, the light from the kerosene lamp in the middle of the table flickering over their faces. Dani straightened in her seat, bracing for what she predicted would be a passionately loud debate.

"And… go where, exactly?" Santana asked.

"Back home."

Santana put her bowl down, leaning forward with her hands flat on the table. "Kurt, I don't know if this particular detail escaped your attention," she said, "but transportation's a bit dead right now."

"I know," Kurt replied.

Rachel's eyes widened slightly. "You mean… walk?"

"People walk across the country all the time."

"…No, they don't," Santana argued.

"Look, all things considered, Ohio isn't that far," Kurt countered. "We'd only have to make it through New Jersey and Pennsylvania. That's what, two hours by plane?"

"Yeah, by  _plane_ , Kurt!" Santana cried. Dani couldn't decide if Santana looked more pissed off or astonished that the idea had even entered Kurt's head. "Do you have  _any_  idea how long that would take on foot?"

"Probably weeks."

Santana blinked, her jaw clacking shut as if she'd just realized Kurt was actually serious.

"Kurt, why would we leave?" Rachel asked.

His jaw tightened, and he looked down at his hands for a moment. "I don't think the power's coming back," he admitted. Rachel swallowed, glancing nervously at Dani. "At least, not for a long time. And if it's not, then I don't want to be stuck here."

Rachel chewed on her lip for a moment, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "Kurt, we'll be okay here," she said. "We can get food and water from the stores, we're inside, we have beds."

Kurt's response was measured and even, but Dani could still hear a touch of trepidation beneath his voice. "There are  _millions_ of people in this city. Do you really think that supplies are going to last?"

Rachel's mouth clamped shut.

Dani swallowed, unsure if she should take part in this conversation. Honestly, she had no idea if she agreed with Kurt or not. On the one hand, it was ridiculous to assume that just because the power had been out for a few days that it wouldn't come back; plenty of places had several-day blackouts all the time. But on the other hand, she'd never seen nor heard of a blackout like this before, and she couldn't think of a single thing that would cause  _all_  electricity to be wiped out regardless of whether it was connected to the power grid. And the uneasiness settling heavily into the pit of her stomach wasn't a great indicator that everything would soon be all right.

"Kurt," Santana rejoined the debate, her voice quieter than before. "It makes absolutely no sense to leave. Okay, yeah, it's not entirely safe here, but why the  _hell_  would it be  _more_  safe for us to walk from New York to Ohio?"

Kurt yanked his fingers through his hair. "Santana,  _there is nobody coming to help_ ," he snapped. Santana sat back abruptly in her chair. Kurt sighed, scratching at his forehead. "It's been three days, and we haven't seen anyone coming in from anywhere else – no military, nothing."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Santana demanded.

"I mean that it's happened to a lot more places than New York. You were saying the exact same thing two days ago, Santana," Kurt insisted. "And you were right. This isn't just a power outage."

Santana pursed her mouth, shaking her head.

Dani finally worked up the courage to interject. "Kurt, maybe it would be better to take a few days and think this over."

Kurt's eyebrows snapped together. "I thought you agreed with me on this."

"I never said I agreed with anything."

Kurt glanced at both Rachel and Santana. "Am I really the only person who thinks it would be worth it?" he asked in disbelief. "I mean, aren't you worried about what's happening back home?"

Rachel tucked her hair behind her ear, speaking hesitantly. "Kurt, it's just… we don't know what this is. We don't know what's going on, and we really  _don't_  know that no one's coming to help. I mean, what if the power comes back in a week and we're suddenly stuck in the middle of Pennsylvania?"

"Not to mention the fact that Rachel can't even  _walk_ ," Santana added harshly. "Did you factor that into the equation?"

"I thought about it, yeah," Kurt snapped.

"Where would we sleep? Are there any motels still open? How would we deal with the weather? Can you promise that we'd have food when we needed it?"

"I don't know."

"How do you know that we won't be robbed?"

"I don't."

Dani reached forward and put a hand on Santana's arm. "Come on, Santana, lighten up a bit."

"Kurt, it's just not a good idea," said Rachel.

Kurt huffed. "Fine," he spat, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "We'll just sit here, then. Fine."

* * *

Blaine and his parents buried Cooper's body in the soft loam at the lower end of the wide grassy slope behind their house, close to Gina's flower garden. There was no coffin and no headstone, only a patch of not-quite-settled soil and a few gardenias Gina had planted at the head of the grave. It hadn't even occurred to Blaine that the spot was pretty, and he hadn't yet wrapped his head around the idea that anything that had happened in the past three days was anything other than a horrifically vivid and elaborate nightmare. His upper arm was bruised a deep purple from repeatedly digging his fingernails into his skin, attempting to pinch himself awake. And he wasn't sure why, but Blaine found that his hands would not stop shaking.

There had been no funeral for Cooper – not even just for the three of them. Gina only shook her head and brushed it off when Timothy suggested they have a small service.

"Gina—" Tim tried to argue, but his wife quickly cut him off.

"We'll have a service," she insisted, "when all this mess has blown over and we can have a proper memorial at the church." Her lips tightened, and Tim's shoulders slumped.

Blaine swallowed, staring out the window to the back lawn at Gina's garden and the plants drooping in the damp. It had been two days and the fog blanketing Lima still refused to lift. Blaine picked anxiously at his fingernails, frustrated that they were still clogged with dirt from digging the grave. His stomach clenched in his abdomen, briefly reminding him that he hadn't eaten breakfast, nor dinner or lunch the day before.

"Blaine." Tim's voice snapped Blaine's attention away from the window. His father nodded his head towards the front door, picking up two backpacks from the coat rack in the foyer. "Come with me. We need to pick some things up from downtown."

Blaine really didn't want to go out there again, but he didn't have the energy to argue and the thick air inside the house was suffocating him, so he took one of the packs and followed his father to the door without a word.

"Be careful," Gina called after them.

It was quiet out in the fog, and the mist hugged close and clung to Blaine's hands and hair and clothes. Blaine regretted leaving the house almost immediately – it wasn't any easier to breathe out here – but at least the cool air was beginning to slightly soothe the nausea resting in the bottom of his gut.

"What are we getting?" Blaine asked, his voice stifled in the murk. He shifted the empty pack on his shoulders. It was strange to be using the backpacks for anything other than school.

"We need to pick up some food and a few other supplies," Tim replied, staring ahead into the haze as they walked along the road towards central Lima. "Matches, charcoal for the grill, that kind of thing."

"Are we going to steal it?"

Tim's expression was grim. "If the stores are still shut down, then yes."

* * *

Mercedes jolted awake at the screech of a falcon somewhere overhead. She scrunched up her eyes, the harsh sunlight shooting daggers through her eyelids, and gingerly sat up. She let out a pained hiss through her teeth as her muscles were stretched, her legs screaming in protest. It felt as though every muscle fiber under her skin was burning up, sore from a full day of nothing but walking through the deadened city and then sleeping on a hard bench all night. She hadn't reached the hills to the northeast of L.A. until late evening, and she'd slept on a bench alongside a hiking trail overlooking the sprawling city all the way out to the ocean.

Groaning as she pulled the kinks out of her neck and her back and carefully extended her legs, placing her feet back on the ground and sitting straight up on the bench, she grumbled that her choice of camping spot had been a lot nicer last night. Which was true, of course – she'd gone to sleep watching the stars in the sky, listening the sigh of the breeze and a few night birds cooing in the sparse trees further up the mountain – but now in the blinding sun it was just brownish and rocky and bright.

Coughing to clear her dry throat, Mercedes pulled out her ponytail and wrapped her already-frizzed and tangled hair into a bun as tightly as possible to get it off her neck. Stifling a yawn, she pulled a water bottle out of her pack and downed half of its contents before chiding herself for not thinking of saving it for later.  _There's got to be a gas station or something eventually,_  she thought reassuringly.  _I should get a map too._

For a few minutes, Mercedes sat on the bench and watched the unmoving city spread out below. After only a few days of dead cars and buses and A/C units, the haze of pollution had noticeably cleared, not quite gone but already allowing for more of a view. There were no sounds at all wafting up from the streets on the wind, leaving the whole of the city lifeless and achingly silent. She could see a few single plumes of smoke at different points several miles away, signaling the fires in looted stores and homes.

She suddenly was slammed with an overwhelming sensation of gratitude that she'd had the sense to leave before her apartment was raided. The image of the trampled corpse lying in the street outside, a crow pecking at his bruised and bloated face, flashed across her brain and she had to fight a wave of nausea.

She drew another sip of water, careful not to take too much this time.

* * *

Blaine and his father had to walk almost to the opposite side of Lima before they were able to find a grocery store that hadn't been completely gutted yet. Only about a third of the shelves were still full, and Blaine briefly wondered in the back of his mind how many people were actually just taking the things they needed and how many were hoarding as much as they could. He then wondered which category he and his father fell into.

As they quickly packed their bags with as much as they could carry, it was very gradually beginning to dawn on Blaine that, as surreal as their entire situation seemed, all of this was in fact  _happening_  and absolutely none of it was just his imagination. The realization was causing an awful sense of motion sickness, as if the ground was swaying under his feet. He grabbed the edge of the nearest food shelf to steady himself.

"Blaine?" Tim said, pausing where he was picking up a shrink-wrapped hock of ham to place in his bag. "You all right?"

Blaine nodded wordlessly, his skull feeling like it was stuffed with cotton.

Tim sighed, zipping the backpack shut and setting it on the ground against the shelf. "Can I ask you a question, Blaine?" he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What?"

Tim chewed on the insides of his cheeks for a moment, appearing to debate whether or not he should actually say what was on his mind. "You didn't cry when we buried Cooper," he said, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "Why?"

Blaine swallowed, looking away as a rock settled into the pit of his gut. The phantom smell of gasoline mixed with blood and smoke weighed on his senses, and the image of Cooper's glazed-over eyes and crushed limbs stabbed into the back of Blaine's mind. He didn't even realize he'd bitten his lip until he tasted blood.

"I don't know," he responded tonelessly.

Tim's eyebrows pulled together slightly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he studied his son. Blaine shifted to his other foot in discomfort, hoping that Tim wouldn't try to talk about it any further.

After an agonizingly long, quiet minute, Tim finally let out a heavy breath and took his gaze off of Blaine. He picked up his bag again, slinging it over his shoulder, and Blaine's shoulders slumped in relief.

"Come on," Tim nodded his head in the other direction. "Let's get back to your mother."

And yet, as glad as Blaine was that Tim wasn't pressing the issue, there was an awful gnawing in his stomach – an unpleasant feeling that reached all the way to his brain and the tips of his fingers. His nerves were all suddenly screaming at him, his skin abruptly too small for his body.

"Dad?" he started, his throat going dry so quickly that the word came out as a croak.

Tim stopped again, turning around. "Yes?"

_I'm so sorry I didn't save him. It should have been me._

The words bottlenecked in Blaine's mouth, choking him until he was forced to breathe, shake his head, and say, "Nothing. Let's go home."


	7. Animal Tracks

_DAY 6_

Mercedes staggered slightly, fighting a wave of dizziness as she dragged herself along the road. A hot, dry wind blew past her, making her cracked lips burn. She could taste blood on them, although she wasn't exactly sure why her lips were bleeding. She'd been following the Angeles Crest Highway for almost four days, and she had badly underestimated how much water she would need. Whatever water she drank she was losing too quickly through the pores in her skin, unable to keep it in her body long enough to stay hydrated. The rolling suitcase she'd filled with water and food had been emptied much faster than she expected, and she'd dropped it on the side of the road somewhere several miles back, left only with the supplies in her backpack.

She had, of course, passed several gas stations and a couple of small towns, but every store she peered into had already been gutted and left empty. Most of the gas stations had water fountains, but with the power still dead none of the pumps were working and the fountains yielded nothing but a slow trickle for a few seconds before they were dried up.

Was it just her imagination, or was the air rippling around her?

Every breath she drew into her chest felt like it was burning her from the inside out. Her skin ached every time she moved, blistered from sunburn and sweat.

She could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

There was a loud screech of a bird echoing down from the hills above – was it a falcon? A vulture?

And dear God, she was _sore_. She wasn't unhealthy, but she wasn't in the best of shape either and walking for nearly four days straight had set every one of her muscles on fire.

Mercedes coughed, willing herself to keep going. "I hate California," she grumbled.

* * *

A cool wind rushed down the empty streets of New York, whistling through the abandoned cars and shattered windows and raising goosebumps on Kurt's skin. He shivered and tightened the straps of his empty backpack, his eyes scrutinizing his surroundings for shops, cars, trucks – _anything_ that hadn't yet been emptied of useable goods. He and Santana had volunteered to go on the supply run on their own so that Rachel wouldn't be left alone and instead would have Dani for company, but even though the two of them had been walking through the city for close to two hours, they hadn't been much company for each other. Kurt wondered briefly if Dani should have gone with Santana instead of him, but as they were now somewhere in the vicinity of Brooklyn Heights, there was hardly any point in deciding differently.

"You're quiet," Santana observed as they rounded a corner near Columbus Park, passing the TD Bank.

Kurt watched a stray cat dig through a trash can on the sidewalk, hissing at them as they passed by. "Is there something we should be talking about?" he asked, keeping his voice aloof.

"You're just usually such a chatty Kathy." Her hair was about to fall out of its bun, hanging lopsidedly from the back of her head. There was a smudge of dirt on her temple.

"We've all been stuck in our apartment without electricity for a week. There's not exactly a lot to talk about," Kurt replied, lifting his head to watch a large flock of swifts swoop through the air between the high rises overhead.

Santana gave him a pointed look. "You're still mad at me, aren't you?"

"For what?" Kurt sighed. He peered through the broken front window of TD Bank, finding it an eerily vacant.

She made a face at him. "For disagreeing with you, dumbass. You still think we should leave."

Kurt finally looked her in the eye, pressing his lips together for a moment before responding. "Santana, we're four miles from home and we haven't found a single store that hasn't been completely emptied. It's been one _week_. Do you _really_ still think that the power is coming back soon?"

Santana was quick to counter. "And do you _really_ think we're going to find food any easier outside the city?"

Kurt pulled his fingers through his hair, mentally grimacing as how awful it felt. None of them had had a proper shower in a week, and it was driving him mad. "I don't know," he admitted. "But at least we wouldn't be _stuck_."

Santana abruptly stopped short in her tracks, giving Kurt a glare that fell somewhere between earnestness and fury. "Okay, Kurt, I'm not going to argue that the power's coming back tomorrow. But you know what we have here?" she demanded. "We have protection. We have a place to live and we know that we're safe there."

Kurt shook his head solemnly. "Santana, we're _not_ safe," he said. "Nearly every building we passed on our way here was broken into. Half of those were apartment buildings. We saw _eleven_ people lying dead in the street and most of them looked like they'd been shot. What the hell makes you think we're safe from any of that?"

Santana's jaw twitched, and she crossed her arms.

"So no, I can't promise that we'll be okay if we leave, but I _can_ promise that we _won't_ be okay if we stay here."

Santana frowned suddenly, turning her head in the direction of the Columbus Park greenery. "Wait, be quiet," she said.

"What?"

"Shh!" she snapped, moving to the left and craning her neck to look at the park. "I thought I heard something weird."

Kurt scowled in confusion, but said nothing, instead following her gaze and attempting to see what she'd heard.

Then Santana slapped a hand against his chest to stop him, staring straight ahead with her eyes wide in terror. "Kurt," she hissed under her breath. "Don't move."

Kurt froze, the pit of his stomach tightening in anxiety and the hairs on his arms standing on end. "Where the hell did those come from?" he whispered.

" _I don't know_ ," Santana spit through her teeth. "What do we do?"

"J-just back away. Back away."

Lying on the lush green grass of Columbus Park was the half-eaten corpse of a fat man in a suit, and aggressively digging into what remained of it was a snarling pack of three huge spotted hyenas.

* * *

The sun beat down on the back of Blaine's neck as he forced his aching shoulders to swing the axe down on a section of the tree he and his father had felled at the edge of their property. He'd been out here on his own for a long time, chopping wood for the fireplace to keep the house warm and so his mom could cook. They'd never actually used the fireplace before, and until the power had vanished Blaine had actually believed that it was only decorative.

A bead of sweat dripped into Blaine's eye, making him stop and put down the axe for a moment, digging the heel of his hand against his eyelid. He paused to draw a deep breath into his chest, brushing his hands off on the seat of his pants (and for God's sake it had been a _week_ – why were his fingers still shaking?). He glanced over toward his mom's flower garden, his stomach twisting at the spot where Cooper was buried, marked only by a few gardenias that hadn't yet bloomed.

Swallowing the sudden nausea building in his chest, Blaine picked up the axe again and chopped a thin cross-section of the tree's trunk as smoothly as he could. He hefted it up and laid it flat on the ground, crouching over it to brush the excess splinters from the uneven surface. Taking the sharp corner of the axe and using it as a chisel, Blaine laboriously carved a few letters into the wood:

_C.A.  
1987 – 2014_

Blowing the dust away from his work, Blaine stood and carried the cross-section over to Cooper's grave, pressing it into the not-quite-settled soil in front of his mom's gardenias.

"What are you doing?"

Blaine jumped, just noticing that his mother had walked down to the slope from the house to join him. She was hugging her middle, a pale blue cardigan hanging from her shoulders, and she wasn't wearing her usual heels and stockings. She looked down at the grave marker Blaine had made, then knelt down on the grass beside him.

"I know it's not permanent, but I figured it would do until everything gets back to normal and we can get a real one," Blaine said. He rolled off his knees to sit cross-legged on the ground.

"It's lovely, sweetheart."

Blaine watched a robin hop through the grass several yards away in silence, pecking at the dirt for worms and bugs, and for the first time in a week, he felt calm. He didn't know what would happen in the next few days, or if everything would _ever_ go back to the way it was before the blackout, or if Kurt was safe and sound hundreds of miles away in New York, or if his family would be able to continue living normal without his brother, but for the moment it seemed like none of that mattered. The earth and everything on it would go on, regardless of what happened to them, and even if it felt like Blaine's world was ending, his world was so very small.

* * *

Kurt could feel his heartbeat in his temples, adrenaline pumping from his chest to the tips of his fingers as every cell in his body frantically screamed at him to _run_. There was a war raging between the walls of his brain, a hundred different shouted thoughts and all of them conflicting. _Don't move, run for your life, scream, don't let them see you, I wish I had a gun, WHERE THE HELL DID HYENAS COME FROM._ Kurt had never even seen hyenas except at the zoo.

"…Oh, _crap_ ," he breathed.

"What?" Santana whispered, still frozen to the spot next to him.

"If there's no power, the zoo's backup security isn't working."

"Seriously, Kurt?!" she spat, her voice high-pitched and stretched in terror. " _That's_ what you're trying to figure out right now?!"

Across the street, the hyenas yipped and cackled at one another, gnawing on the fat man's disemboweled remains with bloodstained muzzles. Kurt wanted to throw up.

"Wait, wait, wait," Santana said, her words shaking. "Hyenas are scavengers, aren't they? They don't hunt."

"I-I think so," Kurt whispered back.

"So… if we just walk away, th-they won't come after us. Right?"

Kurt's heart skipped as one of the hyenas lifted its head, sniffing curiously until its beady eyes landed on the two of them. "I hope so," he said. "We need to go, _now_."

Santana swore under her breath, all three hyenas now staring directly at them.

Kurt wordlessly reached down and grabbed Santana's hand, his fingers clenching around hers tightly. " _Run_."

In unison, Kurt and Santana spun round and _bolted_ , their empty backpacks swinging back and forth uselessly on their shoulders as they dashed through the cars strewn chaotically through the street. Kurt heard a loud snarl, and he glanced over his shoulder for half a second to see a hyena jump onto the hood of a car a hundred feet back, its teeth bared as it closed in on them. He couldn't see the other two, but he had a sinking feeling in his stomach that they weren't far behind.

Santana screamed as another hyena reappeared to their right, driving them left. Her fingers gripped Kurt's so tightly that they were probably cutting off circulation.

"There!" Kurt shouted, pointing to a large eighteen-wheeler standing abandoned a few hundred yards up ahead. If he and Santana could make it to the truck and climb into the cab, they'd be safe. At least, he hoped they would.

If all the oxygen in his body wasn't focused on keeping his legs _run run run running_ , Kurt might have realized that this was the first time he'd prayed since his mother's death.

Suddenly, some unseen debris on the ground caught the toe of his sneaker, and Kurt felt Santana's hand rip out of his as his arms flailed and he slammed into the pavement, skidding and badly scraping his elbows. Santana shrieked and whirled back to help Kurt up just as the third hyena leaped into view behind her, between them and the truck.

 _Oh God, we're going to die_.

Grasping Santana's hand like a vice, Kurt scrambled back onto his feet, the adrenaline in his every vein setting his skin on fire. "This way!" he ordered, heaving himself onto the hood of the nearest car and pulling Santana with him. Together, they jumped onto the next vehicle – a gigantic black SUV that burned their hands with the heat it had been absorbing all day from the sun – and climbed up to its roof.

They just barely managed to straighten up as the first hyena to reach them launched itself at the SUV, its teeth bared in a loud snarl as it lunged. Santana swung her leg out with as much force as she could muster and kicked the beast squarely in the jaw, practically flipping it backwards and forcing it to yelp in pain.

Kurt's mouth dropped open. "I love you," he said.

"No time," Santana panted, her chest heaving. The other two hyenas had already closed in on either side of the SUV, and the one Santana had kicked was already back on its feet.

Kurt felt his heart squeeze into his throat as the hyenas circled, all whooping in an eerie, wild and definitely unfriendly chortle. The eighteen-wheeler was only fifteen feet ahead, but the space between them and the truck seemed to stretch and pull, growing until the truck was miles away. It suddenly occurred to Kurt that he didn't even have any idea if the truck's doors were locked.

"Kurt!" Santana snapped her fingers in front of his nose. "Stay with me! We gotta go!"

A hyena reared back on its hind legs, pounding its front paws against the side of the SUV and rocking it beneath Kurt and Santana's feet. Another jumped onto the hood, its throat bobbing in a loud cackle. Santana seized Kurt's wrist, and they quickly vaulted from the SUV to the roof of a sedan stranded a few feet away. The hyena on the SUV bounded after them, nipping at their heels as they jumped down from the sedan and broke into a flat-out run, bolting for the truck.

_Please don't be locked, please don't be locked, PLEASE—_

Kurt rushed to climb the side of the cab and yank the door handle, a wave of relief cascading over his body when it easily opened. He threw himself into the driver's seat, wheeling around to grab Santana's outstretched hand as she scrambled up behind him, but Santana shrieked as a hyena's teeth snapped at her calf and managed to tug her down by the denim of her jeans. The other two had caught up and were eagerly screeching as they closed in.

"Come on!" Kurt shouted, pulling hard on Santana's arm.

She gritted her teeth, growling under her breath, and suddenly there was a pained yip from below her as she smashed her free foot into the animal's nose, forcing it to release her leg. Santana hopped into the cab, knocking Kurt over, and slammed the truck's door shut.

For several seconds, the two of them sat there catching their breath, listening to the hyenas hoot and cackle outside as they circled the truck. Kurt grunted and pulled himself off the floor and into the passenger seat, looking down out of the window as one of the hyenas raised itself on its hind legs, sniffing and attempting to find a way into the cab.

"Are you okay?" he finally mustered the energy to ask.

Santana lifted her leg to show him where a large piece of her jeans had been ripped away, leaving exposed her uninjured leg. The hyena's teeth had just barely missed her flesh. "I think half an inch closer and I'd have a pretty nasty scar to show for it," she said flatly.

"Jesus," Kurt breathed, his lungs still heaving.

"So… what now?"

"I… I think we just wait them out."

"Fine by me," Santana said, nervously eyeing the hyenas below. "I am _never_ watching The Lion King again."

* * *

The Angeles Crest rest stop to Mercedes appeared like an oasis in the desert, and when she pushed through the dusty doors and found the coolers by the cash register only half-emptied, she felt so happy she nearly cried. Muttering repeated thanks to God or Allah or whoever the hell was in control of whether she ate or starved, Mercedes pulled open the door to the cooler and grabbed the largest bottle of water on the shelf. She sunk to sit on the floor, letting her sore legs rest as she gulped down a third of the bottle's contents, not even caring that the water was warm.

Letting out a long, calming breath and leaning her back against the cooler, Mercedes took her time rehydrating and enjoying the shade inside the rest stop. A couple of sparrows chirped overhead, probably having flown in through a broken window somewhere in the building.

Setting the bottle of water aside, Mercedes reached down to untie her shoes, hissing through her teeth as she pulled her sneakers off and peeled her socks away from her blistered soles. Maybe the rest stop had some First Aid supplies she could salvage.

For now, Mercedes stocked up on water and Gatorade, shoving as many bottles as would fit into her backpack. Forcing herself to stand (and oh _God_ her feet were killing her), she sifted through the maps sitting in the counter display by the cash register, road maps and hiking trails cutting through the state of California in a massive spider web. Squinting at the network of roads, she finally found her own location, a tiny black tick mark indicating the rest stop where she was currently standing, and measured how far she'd come.

"Eighty-one miles," she sighed. That was barely anything. It was going to take her months to get home at this rate, and she could only pray that the electricity would come back before then.

She was so absorbed in plotted out how she would cross over to Nevada that she almost didn't hear the footsteps outside. At the sound of boots crunching on gravel, her head snapped up and she saw the silhouette of a man walking up to the rest stop's front doors. She sucked in a terrified breath, her heart in her throat, and she ducked behind the cash register. For a brief moment, she was back in the supermarket near her apartment, with a gun to her back and a stranger demanding her money.

The door opened and clanked shut as the man entered the rest stop, casually whistling as his clunking footsteps neared the register's counter. Mercedes held her breath, a hand over her mouth and nose.

"…the hell?" she heard him mumble, kicking at her discarded shoes. She sent a quick prayer skyward that he would leave her backpack alone.

The man's footsteps drew closer, circling around the counter and heading toward the vending machines at the back. For a split second, Mercedes saw a large baseball bat hanging from the man's hand, and she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to contain a small gasp.

The man's footsteps stopped, his boots scraping slightly as he turned in her direction.

He was going to kill her. He was going to kill her and take her water and her backpack and there was nothing she could do about it.

"…Mercedes?!"

Mercedes jumped at the familiar voice, her eyes snapping open. "… _Puck?!_ "


	8. As The Soil Settles Overhead

Mercedes theorized that it was entirely possible that she was vividly hallucinating and the image of Puck standing in front of her with a baseball bat in his hand was nothing but a mirage, but at least he looked just as stunned at their meeting as she was.  She couldn’t remember the last time she saw him (probably around the time they graduated from McKinley – they had never been _that_ close as friends, after all) and frankly, he looked so different she was surprised she could recognize him.  He was sunburned and he hadn’t shaved in days (although that was _not_ surprising considering the current condition of the world), and he’d let his old Mohawk disappear, allowing his entire head of hair to regrow evenly.  Maybe it was just the stubble all over his jaw, but Mercedes thought he looked strangely older.  If this was a hallucination, she was pretty sure her brain would not have made those changes.

“What the hell were you hiding for?” Puck demanded, appearing genuinely confused.

“I thought you were going to shoot me!” Mercedes protested.

He made a face, glancing sidelong at his bat.  “With what?  I don’t have a gun.”

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” she countered as Puck reached down to help her up.  She winced as the blisters on her bare feet were stressed, then brushed a loose strand of frizzed hair away from her face.  “Puck, what are you _doing_ here?  I thought you joined the Air Force.”

Puck scratched at the back of his neck.  “I did, but I had like a month before I actually had to start and the base was in California anyways, so I figured I’d spend my last days of freedom in the City of Angels,” he said, shrugging.  He let the tip of the bat clunk solidly against the floor, leaning on it like a cane.

Mercedes brushed the dust from the seat of her pants.  “Well, it’s not the city of anything anymore,” she muttered.

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Trying to head home.”

Puck’s eyebrows shot up.  “On foot?  Seriously?”

“…Aren’t you on foot?”

He shook his head.  “No, I stole a horse.”

Mercedes blinked.  “You— what?”

A prideful grin spread across Puck’s face.  “Yeah, I found him in a stable in Pasadena,” he said.  “Some kind of rich-people farm for professional riders or whatever.  Come on, I’ll show you.”

“Give me a second.”  Mercedes propped an arm against the counter as she pushed her aching toes back into her shoes.

Puck eyed the massive (and frankly disgusting) blisters on her feet with concern.  “You okay?” he asked.  “Those don’t look so good.”

“Well, it’s either this or go barefoot,” she replied dryly, wincing as she re-tied the laces.  “Since when do you know how to ride a horse?”

“I used to take my sister to her riding lessons,” Puck explained, carding his fingers through his hair (and man, it was going to take awhile for Mercedes to get used to how he looked with it).  “I mean, I never actually rode with her – I just remember a lot of what her teacher said.  I’m not great but the basics were easy enough to figure out.”

“You never paid that much attention in high school,” Mercedes joked as Puck led her outside.

Groaning mentally as her eyes were suddenly forced to readjust to the cruelly bright sun, Mercedes followed Puck along the edge of the tiny parking lot and around the corner of the building, nearly laughing out loud when she saw the animal Puck had so proudly claimed as his own.

The horse was tied to a tree at the edge of the lot, a huge bay mare with a rich brown coat and a black tail swishing back and forth.  It was obvious the mare had been well-groomed for the duration of her life, although her coat was understandably dusty from the road, and the bridle and saddle that Puck had presumably stolen along with the creature herself were both polished.  Puck had tied a rope to the handles of two large canvas bags filled with food and water and slung them across the horse’s back just behind the saddle, essentially creating a set of makeshift saddle bags.  What made Mercedes choke back a laugh, however, was the fact that her mane was tightly and ornately braided.  Puck had stolen a dressage horse.

“My motorcycle doesn’t work, so meet my new ride – Mr. T,” Puck said, striding up to the mare and rubbing a palm over her nose.  “He’s got one horsepower.”

Mercedes stared at Puck blankly.  “You named your horse after Mr. T?  Really?”

Puck cracked a smile as the horse gently butted him in the chest.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Looks like him, doesn’t it?”

“You do realize it’s a mare, right?”

“Huh?”

“It’s a mare,” Mercedes repeated.  “Female.”

Puck’s grin vanished abruptly.  Mr. T snorted.

* * *

A week without power and Carole was fairly sure she was about to lose her mind, although she wasn’t entirely certain whether her restlessness stemmed from apprehension of the world’s current circumstances or just sheer boredom.  Burt was spending most of his time trying to get the cars in the garage to turn on (he had made absolutely no progress, but Carole wasn’t about to discourage him since at least he had something to _do_ ) and she had been finding small, mostly pointless tasks around the house to occupy herself, like re-organizing their photo albums or alphabetizing the books on the shelves.  She almost wished the hospital was a block away so that she could still go to work, but there was no way she could walk the thirty-five miles northeast to Findlay and back.  And besides, she had no idea if the hospital was even operating at the moment.

She didn’t even want to think what must have happened to the patients whose life support had suddenly vanished along with the power.

At the present moment, Carole was trying to keep her hands occupied by dusting all the surfaces in the living room with a rag – a menial task she normally detested, but at least it was _something_.  When the power finally came back, the house was going to be cleaner than she’d ever had the energy to keep it before, she thought bitterly to herself.  And dear _God_ , she hoped the power would come back.  She missed her showers, her stove, her car, her movies, her radio, her phone, and most importantly, her job.  She was tired of being afraid to go into town because of what she would see.  All the wreckage and debris wasn’t part of a world she was familiar with.

So she cleaned, and fixed, and organized, and tidied, and kept herself busy, and she pretended everything was somewhat all right.

As Carole dusted the shelves by the now-useless TV (which still had _Charade_ stuck in the DVD player), working her way around the picture frames and various other knickknacks, she paused on an old photo of herself and Finn at the beach.  She let out a slow breath, gently picking up the photograph and cradling it in her fingers.  It was nearly fifteen years old, and in it she was kneeling in the sand, hugging Finn in her lap with her hair – much longer and curlier back then – blowing in the wind.  Finn was maybe five years old, in bright blue swim trunks and streaked with sunscreen, squinting in the sun and grinning.  Carole felt a rock press into her throat.

“Honey?”

Carole flinched, looking over her shoulder to see Burt standing in the doorway from the kitchen.  “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, her fingertips tightening slightly around the picture’s frame.  “Any luck with the cars?”

“Nope,” he admitted with a shake of his head.  There was a streak of oil on his forehead.  “Pretty close to giving up, honestly.  What’re you looking at?”  He came over to stand next to her.

Carole placed the photo back in its spot on the shelf, letting out another sigh.  “I miss him,” she said softly.

Burt wrapped an arm around her back, squeezing her shoulder in consolation.  “Yeah, me too,” he agreed, kissing the top of her head.  “Listen, we’re almost out of food.  We need to go pick up some more stuff from downtown.”

Carole’s heart sank in her chest.  “I’m not sure I want to go,” she said.  “Not again.”  Images of the bodies sprawled across the ground near the wrecked airplane, left to rot out in the open, flashed across her mind and made her shudder.  She’d been an ER nurse for almost twenty years, but nothing could have possibly prepared her for that.

Burt pressed his mouth shut for a moment, then kissed her forehead again.  “It’s okay,” he said.  “I’ll go.”

“You know, I was thinking that I could go to St. Rita’s tomorrow and see if there’s anybody working there,” Carole changed the subject.  “They’ll probably need an extra pair of hands.”

Burt frowned.  “I think the worst of the damage is done, Carole,” he said.

She shrugged.  “People are still going to get hurt or sick, and there should be somebody to help out when they do.”

He nodded, pride flickering across his face.  “Okay.”  He squeezed her shoulder one last time and turned to go back into the kitchen.  “Well, I’m heading out.  Is there anything in particular you know we need?”

“Just the essentials,” she called after him.

“Water, ramen, and a working generator?”

“You got it.”

She heard him chuckle in the kitchen.  “All right, I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Be careful.”

The sound of the door shutting behind him was loud in Carole’s ears, and she swallowed, rubbing her hands over her arms as she abruptly felt a phantom chill.  It was far too quiet now.

Running her fingers through her hair (she really did miss that shower), Carole shivered and circled around the couch to the staircase, the steps creaking harshly under her feet as she climbed to the second floor hallway.  Normally she’d walk straight from the stairs to the end of the hall, where her and Burt’s bedroom was, but this time she stopped at the first door on the left – Finn’s room.

The pit of her stomach turned cold as she stepped inside.  The room still smelled vaguely like Old Spice and grilled cheese, though it had mostly faded by now.  The majority of Finn’s things had been packed away, donated or thrown out, but Carole had never had the strength to get rid of everything.  She’d kept all the furniture, most of the pictures on the walls and his books from school, his backpack still with jumbled and disorganized notebooks tossed inside.  His bed was neatly made and untouched.

Forcing herself to swallow the boulder in her throat, Carole shivered and fought the goosebumps on her arms, pushing open the door to Finn’s closet.  A few boxes rested on the floor inside, mostly clothes that she hadn’t been able to bring herself to dispose of.  She knelt on the carpet, lifting the lid to the box labeled _JACKETS & SWEATERS _in Sharpie.  The box’s contents were neatly folded and stacked, except for the white and grey striped hoodie on top, which had been unfolded and refolded so many times it was now badly wrinkled.

Carole picked it up, shaking it out once before pulling it over her shoulders.  Her arms were far too short for the sleeves, and the hem hung far past her hips, but she immediately felt warmer as she pulled it tighter around her chest.  It had always been her favorite out of all the hoodies Finn owned (and he’d owned a _lot_ , though she had no idea why he thought he needed more than one or two), and since his passing she’d worn it whenever she felt like the world was about to crash down around her again.  It was baggy and too big and it made her feel safe, but she wasn’t entirely sure why she only wore it when Burt wasn’t at home.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a loud clatter from downstairs, and Carole nearly jumped out of her skin.  Quickly shoving the box back into the closet, she strode out of the room and descended the stairs, mentally preparing herself in case someone was breaking into the house.  She realized as she reached the living room, though, that the noise was not someone inside the house, but instead frantic knocking on the door from someone outside.

Her heart skipping, Carole tiptoed toward the kitchen, not sure if she wanted to open the door for whomever was standing on the other side and rattling it in its frame with their incessant knocking.

“ _Carole!  Burt!  Hello?!  Is anybody home?!_ ”

As soon as she recognized the voice, Carole stopped tiptoeing and rushed to the door, yanking it open.  “Hiram!” she cried, ushering him inside.  “Oh my God, are you all right?!”

Hiram was out of breath and sweaty and reeking, one lens of his glasses cracked and his clothes badly in need of a wash.  There was dirt smudged on his face and a scabbed-over cut on his arm, the ripped sleeve stained brown with old blood.  “Please tell me you’ve got water,” he said.

“Y-yeah, of course.”  Carole sat him down on one of the chairs at the little kitchen table, and retrieved a water bottle from the refrigerator (it wasn’t keeping anything cold, but it still functioned as a storage space).  “What happened to you?!”

Hiram leaned back against the wall behind his chair, sucking down half the bottle’s contents in just a few gulps.  “I got stuck in Cleveland when the blackout happened,” he said, placing his glasses on the table and rubbing a palm over his face.  “I had to walk back.”

Carole stared at him.  “You… you walked?  From Cleveland?”

He nodded, still out of breath.  “I was going to just try to make it home in the next hour, but I felt like I was going to pass out and you guys were only a block away.  I am too old to be doing this.”

“Hiram, how long have you been walking?”

“Four days.”  He drew another long swig of water, wincing as he swallowed too much at once.  “Where’s Burt?”

“He went downtown to pick up supplies,” Carole replied.  She shook her head abruptly, as if coming to her senses.  “I’m so sorry – are you hungry?  Can I get you some food?”  It was funny how even in the worst of times, traditional routines of hospitality still remained.

“If I could have just a snack – a granola bar, orange, I’m not picky,” Hiram flapped a hand.  “I’d be grateful.”

“You sure you don’t need more than that?” Carole asked skeptically, handing him two apples out of the nearly empty fruit bowl on the counter.

“It’s enough to get me home,” Hiram said, hungrily digging his teeth into one of them.  “Thank you.”

Carole sat down at the chair opposite from him.  “You know, Hiram, you’re welcome to stay the night.  You could get some rest before heading home.”

Hiram shook his head, chewing thoughtfully.  “That’s alright; there’s a few good hours of daylight left and I don’t want to leave Leroy in the lurch for any longer than I already have,” he declined politely.  “It’s not right that all three of us were separated.”

Carole’s stomach lurched for what felt like the thousandth time as anxiety about Kurt’s conditions stabbed through her chest.  “Have you heard anything from Rachel?” she asked, expecting nothing.

Hiram was silent, shaking his head.

Carole then became keenly aware of the wound in Hiram’s arm, a wave of guilt washing over her since she – an Emergency Room nurse – hadn’t asked to see it.  As Hiram continued to eat his apple, she reached over and pulled his sleeve back where it had been torn.  “What happened?”

A shadow passed over Hiram’s face.  “I got attacked by a group of guys outside Norwalk,” he said darkly.  “I think they wanted my wallet, but I’m not sure.  They had knives.”

“Oh my God,” Carole breathed, holding Hiram’s arm straight across the table so that she could study it more closely.  “How did you get away?”

He didn’t respond for a heavy, pregnant moment.  “I’d rather not talk about it,” he said at last.

* * *

As night rapidly swept in over the city and plunged them into darkness, Rachel yawned, pulling her sweater tighter around her torso and pressing herself deeper into the couch cushions in the hopes of warming her body up a few degrees.  April had never been the warmest time of year in New York, and without the building’s central heating the loft was stuck at a temperature several degrees below comfortable, especially at night.  Rachel shivered and yanked a blanket off the arm of the couch, draping it over her legs and hissing in pain as her injured foot was jostled slightly.

“You okay?” Dani asked.  She was curled up in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, wrapped up in a blanket of her own and reading by the light of the kerosene lamp.  She was the only one besides Rachel who was still awake.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rachel waved her off, yawning again.  It felt like it was midnight already, but the sun had vanished barely two hours ago and it couldn’t be any later than eight-thirty.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Dani suggested.

“I’m fine,” Rachel repeated, choosing not to explain that she hated lying in the dark all by herself.  If she fell asleep here, at least she wouldn’t be alone.  Besides, with her inability to walk normally she’d been spending so much time on the couch that it was starting to feel like her bed anyways.

“Well,” Dani said, sitting up and clapping her book shut.  “I’m exhausted, so I _will_ head to bed.”  She dropped the book onto the coffee table and stretched as she stood up.

“Can you leave the lamp?” Rachel requested.

Dani shrugged and bid her a good night, heading past Rachel and disappearing behind Santana’s curtain.

Rachel sighed, watching the lamp’s flame flicker inside the glass chimney, and wondered why she’d never found shadows so intimidating before.  They scared her now – dancing and distending and twisting across the walls of the loft – and she felt like a child.  The loft was much too large now, the walls too far apart and leaving too much room for her fears to sneak in and crowd the place.

It was almost laughable how hell-bent she’d been on coming to New York, and now it seemed like the city had swallowed her up like a beast that preyed on young girls and their dreams of stardom.  She never thought she’d say this in a million years, but after this past week she’d decided that New York was her least favorite place in the world.  She missed her dads and her house and her suffocatingly familiar town, and she ached for the safety of her childhood bedroom and her insignificance.  She’d come to New York to be someone noteworthy, and the rug had been ripped out from under her feet, throwing her into the shadowed pit with everyone else in the godforsaken city.  Being stuck on the couch, unable to walk without crutches and even less able to contribute by going out to scavenge for provisions, had shattered her importance.

Rachel shook her head, forcing her thoughts to subside for the time being, and reached over to grab Dani’s book from the table.  She wasn’t tired, and her lack of fatigue combined with her over-abundance of boredom made her much more interested in literature than she’d ever been before.  They didn’t have many books around the apartment, but the few books they did have at least provided entertainment – even _The Coffee Table Book Of Coffee Tables_ , which Burt had given to Kurt while under the mistaken impression that Kurt actually liked _Seinfeld_.

Dani’s book was well worn and the spine had been bent backwards so many times that it didn’t stay closed on its own, and it was difficult to make out the title in the dim light of the lamp, but Rachel was able to squint and read the two words printed in large font on the cover.  _Cat’s Cradle_.

She quickly put the book back on the table, feeling sick.

There was a rustling from behind her, and Rachel turned her head to see Santana’s silhouette brush past her curtain and walk slowly through the kitchen.  Rachel frowned, worry tugging at the back of her mind.  Santana pulled the window to the fire escape open and bent to slide through, disappearing out onto the landing.

Rachel swallowed, not sure if she should see if Santana was okay.  She and Kurt had returned an hour before sunset, shaking and terrified with nothing in their backpacks.  Kurt had managed to explain that there were animals on the loose from the zoo, but Santana had been eerily quiet all evening, mostly staying behind her curtain and avoiding conversation.  Being attacked by a pack of hyenas would have traumatized anyone, but Santana seemed like she’d lapsed into shock.

Screw it.

Rachel snatched her crutches from where they rested against the arm of the couch and heaved herself onto her feet (well, foot), hobbling away from the lamp and the warm light it provided.  Limping through the kitchen, she leaned down to squint through the window, barely able to see anything outside.

“Santana?” she called softly, and saw the vague shadow of Santana’s head turn.  She was sitting on the stairs leading up to the roof.  “Are you okay?”

Rachel heard a sniff.  “I didn’t know you were still up,” Santana replied, her voice thick.

Rachel decided not to comment that the lamp still being lit was more than noticeable, and instead leaned her crutches against the wall next to the window.  Balancing on her good foot and the toes of the other, she carefully wormed her way through the window and stepped out onto the fire escape, immediately feeling a shiver shoot up her spine as her bare feet met the cold air.  Once she was on the landing outside, she gripped the railing and sank down to sit next to Santana, blinking repeatedly as she tried to force her eyes to adjust to the dark.

“What’s wrong?”

Santana sniffed again, swiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.  “I just… I don’t know what we’re supposed to _do_ ,” she confessed.

Rachel’s heart twisted in her chest, and she wrapped one arm around Santana’s shoulders, hugging her tightly from the side and fully expecting Santana to push her off.  To Rachel’s surprise, however, Santana instead leaned into the embrace, using Rachel’s shoulder for support.  Rachel could feel Santana’s body shuddering and she wished she could give some advice, but even if Rachel had always thought herself to be smarter than most of her friends, Santana had always been wiser.  Rachel had nothing to offer.

Rather than try to give some clichéd pep talk that she knew would sound completely hokey and not at all honest, Rachel instead reached with her other arm to complete the hug, clasping her hands around Santana’s shoulder.  Santana collapsed against her, silently crying in a way Rachel had never seen before.  This wasn’t Santana being upset over yet another relationship falling apart, or whimpering to manipulate a teacher into giving her a higher grade.  This was grief, pure and simple.

“I miss my mom,” Santana choked.

“I miss my dads,” Rachel agreed softly, tightening her arms around Santana’s frame.  She ran a hand over Santana’s hair, not knowing what else to say.

Before she could even try to come up with some other words of sympathy or comfort, however, the earsplitting noise of a gunshot cracking harshly through the air made the two of them jerk upright, pulling apart.  Rachel gripped Santana’s hand tightly, her eyes wide in the dark.  Santana had gone rigid, and Rachel felt Santana’s skin run cold.  The shot couldn’t have been more than a block away.

A second later, a woman screamed somewhere out in the darkness, and another two shots rang out, cutting the scream off abruptly.  Santana flinched, her breath shuddering out of her lungs.

Rachel tried to fight back a sudden wave of tears, but failed and instead gritted her teeth to keep a sob from escaping her mouth.

“Kurt was right,” Santana whispered, her voice trembling.  “We can’t stay here.”


	9. Evacuation

Although he would never admit it aloud to Mercedes, Puck didn't have a vocabulary versatile enough to describe just how glad he was that he'd run into her. As the rest of the world had fallen into shambles, he'd managed to get out of Los Angeles relatively unscathed (plus he was rather proud of his own street smarts in seeking out the stable in Pasadena to get a horse), but ultimately, this past week had been without a doubt the most terrifying period of his life. Of course, he'd never admit _that_ to Mercedes either. But amidst all the chaos and confusion of the blackout, now that there was a familiar face to travel with everything seem a little less unmanageable.

Since they'd met up, Puck had let Mercedes ride in the saddle to let her blistered feet have some relief – not to mention give his own ass a rest from being numb. His legs were sore after riding for three days, and it felt good to be walking again, even if now he was traveling much slower. He strode alongside Mercedes and Mr. T (well… Mrs. T, as Mercedes had pointed out, even though it _completely_ killed the badass-ness of the name), guiding the horse along by the reins while Mercedes watched the scenery go by.

"I think I've gone bowlegged," Puck remarked, stretching his knees as he walked.

Mercedes laughed from her perch on Mr. T's back. "Already? After what, three days?"

"Maybe," he chuckled. It had only been a week, but it felt like much, _much_ longer since the last time Puck had felt safe enough to laugh at a joke. It was refreshing to do so again.

"Hold on, pull over," Mercedes said. "I have to pee."

Puck tugged gently on the reins, letting Mr. T come to a standstill before reaching up to give Mercedes a hand down from the saddle. She landed next to him with a slight _oof_ , cringing as she stood again on her blistered soles.

"If I'm not back in five minutes, send a search party," she joked dryly as she limped off the shoulder of the road, disappearing behind a clump of shrubs.

As Puck waited with Mr. T, he watched a small lizard zigzag across the pavement, it's tongue flicking out to scoop up a few ants as it went. A soft breeze rustled through the sparse trees lining the road, and in the distance there was the high-pitched screech of a falcon. A few sparrows twittered nearby.

"Hurry up!" Puck called. He scratched at his shoulder where his sunburned skin was beginning to peel.

"Shut the hell up and let me do my business," Mercedes shouted back.

Puck laughed to himself, patting Mr. T's nose as she nuzzled his chest. "Nice for you to have some girl company, huh?" he said to her. She blew a heavy gust of air out of her nostrils in response, chewing noisily on her bit. "Yeah, I thought so." He reached up and brushed his palm over her neck to give her a scratch, his hand coming away dusty and covered in dirt. He'd have to find something to give Mr. T a good brushing with when they set up camp later.

"Okay, seriously, how long does it take you to pee?" Puck yelled.

There was only silence in response. The falcon called again somewhere overhead.

"Mercedes!" Puck called, frowning. What the hell was taking her so long?

There was then a low rumble reverberating through the air from the west, almost like thunder but with a deeper, lower echo. The earth under Puck's feet shivered, and his gaze snapped upwards as a cloud of birds suddenly took flight from the trees, all screeching and flapping in a frenzy. Mr. T snorted and sidestepped nervously, pawing the ground with her hoof.

"Mercedes!" Puck shouted again, his palms beginning to sweat. "Come on, we need to go!"

There was another roll of thunder from under Puck's feet, and the earth began to shake in earnest, nearly making Puck lose his balance. He barely managed to keep his grip on Mr. T's reins. The mare let out a shrill whinny, her eyes wide enough to see the whites, and Puck desperately tugged on her reins in an attempt to keep her steady. The ground continued to buck and shudder underfoot.

" _Puck!_ " Mercedes was standing over by the bushes, her hands out to the side as she tried not to fall.

"Come on!" Puck bellowed, quickly circling around Mr. T to grab the saddle and hoist himself up. Mercedes began to run towards them, staggering and stumbling this way and that as the ground rolled. Puck reached his hand down for her to grab.

There was a tremendous cracking _boom_ as a tree nearby lost its grip on its roots and crashed into the ground, branches snapping and scattering across the road behind Puck. Mr. T shrieked, rearing up on her hind legs and forcing Puck to lurch forward and wrap his arms around her neck to keep from falling off. The heavy tree trunk rolled downhill and away from them, and the ground suddenly _roared_.

" _Puck!_ " Mercedes lost her balance and landed hard on her side.

" _Mercedes!_ " Puck steadied himself on Mr. T's back, reaching out again. "Come on, get up! _Get up!_ "

" _Help me!_ "

Another tree collided with the earth, groaning as it was ripped out of the soil.

" _COME ON!_ " Puck held his hand out further as Mercedes tried and failed to stand.

There was a terrifying, deafening bellow from underneath the ground, drowning out Mercedes' screams and Puck's shouts. Trees began to drop in a horrific domino effect, collapsing one after the other.

And then the earth wrenched open, tearing apart in a massive rift swallowing trees and rocks and half the road. The pavement cracked beneath Mr. T's hooves and Puck had to scramble to hold on as the horse bolted in a full gallop.

"No, no, _no!_ " Puck cried, grappling for the reins. But no matter how hard he pulled and screamed for his horse to stop, she refused to slow. Puck twisted to look over his shoulder, where the road had disappeared, sucked downwards into the bowels of the earth.

Mercedes had managed to get back on her feet and was racing after him, the dry soil cracking and splitting underfoot. The ground shifted, tilting back into the gaping hole behind her, and in an instant, she was gone.

* * *

Puck sat bolt upright, his chest heaving and his skin drenched in a cold sweat. It was dark except for the flickering light of the campfire, and the few embers floating upwards into the night air. Puck coughed, his lungs burned and dry from hyperventilating, and tried to calm himself down with a few deep breaths (only succeeding in making himself cough again).

"Are you okay?"

Puck sighed, avoiding Mercedes' gaze. "Yeah, I'm all right."

"You were mumbling in your sleep," she said flatly. "Something about an earthquake?"

"I'm fine," he insisted, still slightly disoriented. He gave his head a shake. "Just a nightmare."

Mercedes raised an eyebrow at him from her seat on the other side of the fire, but didn't press him further. She was sitting cross-legged, staring into the flames and looking mildly bored.

"Can't you sleep?" he asked, brushing some dirt off of Mr. T's saddle, which Puck was using as a (very uncomfortable) pillow. Mr. T herself was currently tied to a tree behind Mercedes, munching on some blades of grass growing around her hooves.

Mercedes shrugged. "No, my brain just won't shut off."

Puck sat up a little straighter, twisting to face the fire and wrap his arms around his knees. Mercedes threw a few more sticks onto the charcoals. They were both quiet for a minute, watching the flames eat away at the new fuel, until Mercedes broke the silence.

"So… where were you?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"When it happened," she clarified, toying with a small piece of kindling between her fingers. "Where were you? What were you doing?"

Puck swallowed. "I was leaving a bar downtown," he said reservedly. "I'd had a couple of beers and I thought the world was ending." He scratched at the back of his neck, not wanting to explain any further, and shifted Mercedes' attention. "What about you?"

"I was on the bus."

"How'd you get home?"

"I walked. I was only a couple blocks away from my apartment."

"Lucky you," Puck said.

The kindling snapped in two in Mercedes' hand. "How did you make it home?" she pressed.

Puck's jaw clenched. He stared at his feet. "I didn't."

* * *

_DAY 8_

All things considered, Rachel supposed she should probably be more bitter about this entire situation than she actually was. After all, if the power hadn't gone out, then right now she would be at rehearsal for _Funny Girl_ , possibly picking up an extra shift at the diner or maybe even doing a photoshoot, rather than trying to figure out how the _hell_ she was supposed to pack for walking across three states on crutches. And yes, okay, technically there were only two states between them and home, but Lima was on the wrong side of Ohio, and Ohio was by no means a small state.

"Why couldn't we have been from Rhode Island?" Rachel grumbled to herself as she hobbled around her curtained-off bedroom, shoving clothes into the backpack she'd borrowed from Kurt. She felt bad for anyone in New York who was originally from Alaska.

"Rachel, hurry up!" Santana shouted from the kitchen. "We're losing daylight!"

"Hey, some of us only have one good foot," Rachel retorted.

That was another thing she should be angrier about. An injury like this would have automatically given her job to the understudy for weeks. Now, though, there was no show for her to even miss out on, and after being stuck in her apartment for more than a week with no sign of life returning to normal she was too frightened to be angry.

Dani stuck her head past Rachel's curtain. "You need help packing?" she offered.

Rachel shook her head as she pushed her thickest sweatshirt into the backpack and zipped it shut. She let out a heavy sigh, her hands squeezing the bag's straps (she was afraid to pick it up).

Dani sidled up beside her. "Are you all right?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up," Rachel admitted, a rock pressing against the walls of her throat.

"Me too," Dani replied, and Rachel was about ninety-nine percent sure she was only saying so to make Rachel feel better. She patted Rachel's shoulder. "Come on, we need to go."

Rachel released a huff, as if to say _screw it, let's just do this and get it over with_ , and grabbed her crutches from where they were leaning against the foot of her bed. Kurt picked up her backpack, already making a beeline for the kitchen where they were piling all the luggage to take with them. Rachel hung back for a moment, casting a dispirited glance over her (cozy, comfortable, decorated, _safe_ ) bedroom. It was weird to even think about leaving all her non-essentials behind, but everything had changed and now only the essentials belonged. There was no room for extra baggage.

She reached over to pick up a picture frame from her bureau, of herself and her dads at her eighth birthday party, all with face paint and party hats. There was confetti in their hair and Rachel had gold star stickers covering her cheeks as she gave a sparkly grin to the camera. The photograph was non-essential, but at the thought of leaving it Rachel's stomach gave a painful twist, so she slid it out of the frame and folded it in half, tucking it into the breast pocket of her jacket. It wasn't edible and it wouldn't keep her warm, it wouldn't help her survive – but then again, maybe it would. She refused to look at her empty bedroom a second time, instead limping out of the room and yanking the curtain shut behind her.

In the kitchen, there were backpacks and shoulder bags piled on the table and Dani and Santana were hurriedly pulling their hair into twist buns to keep it out of the way. Kurt was running yet another check-through of the contents of his backpack, making absolute sure he had every necessity and muttering lists of items to himself as he did so.

Rachel frowned at the table. "There are seven bags."

Santana looked at her askance. "And?"

"And there are four of us."

"We're each carrying two," Dani replied, pulling the drawstring on her tote shut. "You're taking one."

"Benefits of being the cripple," Santana quipped.

It was probably supposed to be a joke, but it only made Rachel feel useless and crappier than she had all morning. "I'm not a cripple," she said.

"Rachel, you're carrying one bag," Kurt insisted, sounding like Rachel was the last thing he had time for. "That's the way we're doing it. Here." He picked up her tightly stuffed backpack and pushed it over her arms.

Rachel only gritted her teeth and struggled to tighten the pack's straps without dropping her crutches.

"Kurt, you've got the stove in your bag, right?" Dani asked.

He nodded, almost absentmindedly as he tried to manage a thousand tiny tasks at once. "Yeah, I got it." He patted his pack anxiously. "Okay, we might be good to go."

Rachel's stomach clenched. This was all abruptly becoming very, very _real_.

Kurt, Dani, and Santana all heaved their luggage onto their backs and shoulders. Rachel swallowed, fighting back tears as she looked over her shoulder at the rest of the apartment. The living room was still full of their possessions – _their_ movies, _their_ books, _their_ blankets and pillows and chairs – and they were only material things, but Rachel had always been materialistic and it felt _wrong_ to be leaving everything behind. She wanted nothing more than to scream that they couldn't just _go_ , that they needed to stay and wait for everything to get better, but they'd been through that conversation too many times already.

"We ready?" Dani asked, hooking her thumbs into the straps of her backpack.

The group fell silent for a few long seconds, glancing around the apartment that was too empty and not empty enough all at once.

"I think so," Kurt sighed. "Let's go."

As the four of them closed the apartment door with a resounding, final _thunk_ and descended the curving stairwell to the street, Rachel trailed slowly behind, shuffling down the stairs as best she could without jostling her bandaged foot within her shoe. She found the others waiting for her outside the front door and she immediately felt another wave of tears prick her eyes. They'd barely even left the _building_ and they were already waiting for her to catch up.

"Are you ready?" said Kurt. Rachel had lost track of how many times that question had been asked today, but every time she heard it, it sounded a little more like whoever was asking just wanted a reason to stay.

"Yes," Rachel lied.

"We'll go slow," he promised. He stepped off the curb, heading across the street with the girls in tow.

"Aren't you at _all_ nervous about this?" Rachel finally got up the courage to ask, hobbling quickly to keep up.

"Well, yeah," Kurt replied over his shoulder, squinting in the sunlight. "But I'm more nervous about staying, so…" He trailed off.

"Keep your eyes peeled for hyenas," Santana remarked bitterly. (Dani suddenly looked furtively over her shoulder, as if she'd forgotten until now about Kurt and Santana's run-in with the zoo escapees.)

A chill ran over Rachel's skin as she craned her neck to gaze ahead, past Kurt and Santana and Dani, to where the street looked so much longer, so much wider, and so much more treacherous than it ever had before. She shivered, goosebumps erupting over her skin as a warm spring breeze rustled by.

"Crap!" Dani suddenly cried, turning on her toes and racing back down the block to the apartment.

"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?!" Kurt shouted after her, his voice ricocheting off the buildings and down the deserted street. "Dani!"

"I forgot my watch!" she called, not even slowing down to answer.

Kurt frowned, throwing his arms out to the sides in annoyance as she disappeared back inside. "She forgot her watch," he muttered.

"Shut the hell up, Kurt," Santana snapped. "You late for a job interview or something?"

"No, but I'd like to be in New Jersey by sunset," he retorted, carding through his dirty hair with his fingernails.

Rachel huffed. "I always wanted to avoid New Jersey."

"Didn't we all?" Santana agreed flatly.

Dani reappeared from the door, clutching her watch in her hand and dashing across the road.

"You run like Cary Grant," Kurt remarked as Dani bounded up to them, out of breath and with strands of hair already falling out of place.

She glared at him, panting as she buckled the watch around her wrist. "I'll take that as a compliment," she countered evenly. "Okay, come on. Let's go."

Rachel's palms began to sweat around the handles of her crutches, but she managed to limp along behind them as they walked. The four of them meandered through the streets clogged with abandoned cars, trash, and debris from looted storefronts. And as the wind whistled between the quiet skyscrapers overhead, they headed west.

* * *

Blaine grunted slightly as he pushed the no-longer-automatic supermarket door open, gritting his teeth at the harsh scraping sound of the door's ball bearings screeching against each other (it was sitting too crookedly for the bearings to work properly), and then ducked through the gap he'd made. His mother, in jeans and a t-shirt instead of her regular pencil skirts and cardigans for the first time since the blackout, followed suit and wrapped her hand around his upper arm nervously.

"Are you sure there won't be anybody else in here?" she said under her breath. The supermarket was quiet and dark, the shelves almost entirely emptied, and there was an eerie quality to the air inside – almost like a graveyard.

"No," Blaine replied. "But I don't hear anything. I think we're okay for now."

It was odd, Blaine thought, how the moment disaster struck, the first thing to disappear from people's grasp was trust. Everyone was afraid of everyone. He wondered what purpose that could possibly serve for survival.

As Blaine and Gina walked deeper into the supermarket, the air slowly turned thick and foul. Blaine grimaced and began to breathe through his mouth, which didn't help much and only made his breath taste sour and rotten.

"Ugh, what _is_ that?" Gina whispered, her hand clamped over her nose.

"I don't know," Blaine replied, gagging. "Come on, let's just get what we need and head back home." This place was beginning to feel less like a graveyard and more like a coffin. It was making him nervous, and he wasn't sure if it was the awful rotting fetor or something else a little less tangible that was causing his stomach to churn.

Unzipping their backpacks, Blaine and Gina gradually zig-zagged through the aisles. They collected anything on the shelves that hadn't been taken already – a few cans of soup here, a couple boxes of granola bars there, a jug of nearly expired grape juice – and as Blaine dropped the items into his pack he tried not to think about what would happen once everything truly ran out for good. Maybe the power would be back by then.

"Blaine," Gina hissed to get his attention. She nodded her head toward the rear of the store. "Let's check the back."

Blaine quickly closed his bag and followed her down the aisle toward the dairy section, but slowed as a low, buzzing hum reached his ears. "Hold on, do you hear that?" he whispered, a hand on Gina's shoulder.

Gina nodded, swallowing audibly. The hum almost sounded electric, like power lines or an old air conditioner, and for a moment Blaine was hopeful that they'd somehow stumbled onto a tiny pocket of the world where the power hadn't completely vanished. But then they rounded the corner, and Gina let out a gasp of disgust as a wall of stench slammed into them. The buzzing sound swelling to almost deafening (or maybe it was amplified in Blaine's ears), and he gagged again, fighting the urge to vomit.

Clouding the air surrounding the butcher's counter was the largest swarm of black flies Blaine had ever seen. The butcher's display case was full of rotten cuts of meat – steaks crawling with squirming maggots and filets turned to unhealthy colors and secreting white slime. The flies were so numerous that Blaine could barely see the wall behind them, with the large sign in cheery white letters: _FRESH DAILY!_ To the left of the butcher's the seafood counter was in even worse condition.

"…I don't think I'll be eating again this week," Gina said.

"I'm going vegetarian from now on," Blaine agreed, his lip curled. He now felt a very strong need to take a hot shower. "Come on, let's see if we can find anything in the frozen food section."

As they quickly skirted away from the decomposing meats and fish and left the flies to their feast, the hairs on the back of Blaine's neck abruptly stood on end – something was different. He gently gripped his mother's arm, stopping her in her tracks, and held a finger to his lips, listening as best he could. He wasn't sure what exactly made him think they were no longer alone, but his suspicions were confirmed when there was suddenly a loud _crash_ down an aisle a little ways ahead. Gina flinched, grabbing Blaine's shirtsleeve.

Blaine edged past the next couple of aisles, having absolutely no idea of what he was going to find, and stopped short when he saw what had caused the noise. Behind him, Gina let out a whispered "Oh my God…"

A young girl was standing in the aisle, dropping items into a shopping cart that was too large for her to be pushing. She couldn't have been older than eleven, a thin wisp of a child with her dirty brown hair pulled back in a sloppily tied braid and a few brightly colored hairpins stuck asymmetrically on her head. The crash had presumably been caused by her accidently pushing her cart into a small cardboard stand for displaying razors and had knocked it over, leaving it keeled on its side with its contents scattered across the floor.

"Um, excuse me—" Blaine started. The moment he opened his mouth to speak, the girl's head whipped up to see him and his mother. Without any hesitation, she abandoned the cart and made a run for it, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as she dashed down the aisle and disappeared around the corner. "Hey, wait!" Blaine called, running after her. "We're not going to hurt—"

He skidded to a stop when he saw that the girl wasn't on her own and had run straight back to her partner. Blaine's jaw dropped open.

"… _Artie?!_ "

Artie jumped, gripping the wheels of his chair like he'd been ready to make a run for it too before Blaine had appeared in front of him. "Oh my God, Blaine—"

Blaine didn't wait for Artie to finish his sentence, crossing the last couple of feet between them and leaning down to engulf Artie in a hug. "I'm so glad you're okay," he said once he pulled back.

"You too," Artie said, coughing to clear his throat (he sounded like he was about to cry, but Blaine didn't mention this aloud). "Uh, sorry, this is my sister Caitlin," he added, gesturing to where the girl was standing rigidly behind him, staring warily at Blaine and Gina.

Blaine gave an awkward wave. "Hi," he said. "Sorry I scared you."

Caitlin didn't reply.

Blaine studied Artie, realizing that the last time he'd seen that haunted look on Artie's face was when they'd been trapped in the choir room, thinking there was a gunman in the school. Artie's eyes were reddened and bloodshot, though Blaine couldn't tell if it was from crying or exhaustion – or both – and there were bruises on his cheek and forehead. His lip had been split (and now that Blaine noticed, there were some nasty-looking bruises on Caitlin's face and arms too). There were streaks of dirt on all of Artie's exposed skin, and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose.

"Where have you been since the blackout?" Artie asked, picking at a scab on his knuckles.

"At home, mostly," Blaine replied, scratching at the back of his head and noticing for what probably the first time how dirty his own hair was. Now that he was in the presence of people other than his parents, he was suddenly self-conscious again. "Just trying to stay safe."

"Same," Artie nodded. He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and Blaine saw that Artie's fingertips were shaking. "Um, Caitlin, can you go check the pasta aisle and see if there's anything left there?"

Caitlin gave Artie a questioning look, not moving.

"It's fine, I'll be right here," he assured her.

She pursed her mouth, but did as he said, brushing past Blaine and Gina and walking away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Artie spoke. "Has your house been broken into?"

Blaine glanced at his mother in confusion for a second. "Um, no… why?"

"Ours was," Artie said, his fingers nervously tapping on the arm of his chair. "This group of people just… broke our front door down. They ransacked the place. We couldn't stop them."

"Oh my God, Artie, I'm – I'm so sorry—" Blaine said, but Artie cut him off again.

"Caitlin's been having nightmares, and neither of us can sleep. We're not safe at home," he continued, his voice tinged with desperation. "I can't – I can't make Caitlin stay there, but we have nowhere else to go, and—"

Blaine realized what Artie was asking before he said it, and quickly nodded. "There's plenty of room for you at our house. Right, Mom?"

Gina bit her lip, clearly hesitant about inviting almost-total strangers into her home. "Well, um… how many of you are there?" she asked.

"Just me and Caitlin, nobody else. We don't even have a dog."

Gina blinked, taken aback by the statement. "Where are your parents?"

Artie swallowed, his jaw twitching for a moment, and Blaine's heart sank. "They're not here."

"Oh," Gina uttered. "Then yes, of course, you can come stay with us. You're more than welcome."

Blaine didn't know how he was expecting Artie to react, but he definitely was not expecting Artie to begin crying. Artie took off his glasses to quickly swipe at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Thank you," he said brokenly. "Thank you so much."

* * *

It took Kurt and the girls a little more than three hours to walk from Bushwick, cross the East River, and eventually make it to the west shore of Manhattan. There, the four of them stood atop the concrete bank and looked out across the Hudson to New Jersey, all feeling much further from home than they really were.

"I don't suppose there's a ferry running?" Rachel spoke up nervously, more out of breath than the rest of them from limping the entire distance from home on one leg.

"If by ferry you mean rowboat," Dani said dryly, squinting across the quiet, empty waters. "But that's a big maybe."

Kurt turned away from the river, his eyes scanning the road signs within view. "We'll have to take the Holland Tunnel," he said. "Come on, this way."

A flock of seagulls screeched overhead, and Rachel paused, still searching the water for any signs of a boat. "That's two miles underground…" she said quietly.

Santana rolled her eyes. Now was not the time for claustrophobia. "If you want to swim across the Hudson, be our guest," she declared brusquely.

Rachel bit her lip, but turned and limped down from the curb as the group crossed back across West Street, heading for the underground ramp descending into the Holland Tunnel five blocks away. For several minute, none of them talked; the only sounds were the repeated _clunking_ of Rachel's crutches on the pavement, the seagulls swooping and calling out over the water, and the spring afternoon wind blowing in from the river. But then a shout from behind them made all four of them stop in their tracks.

"Hey!"

All four of them exchanged bewildered glances – they'd passed plenty of people already that day, but every stranger they encountered was nervous and furtive, hyper-aware and suspicious, and absolutely no one had spoken to the small group of not-quite adults slowly walking westward. In unison, they turned to see who had shouted, and spotted a police officer half-jogging toward them.

Santana almost wanted to laugh. First sign of government authority since the blackout, and it was one measly cop all on his own who looked like he'd barely graduated from the police academy a week ago.

"Hey!" he shouted again. "Where do you kids think you're going?"

The officer was _way_ too young to be calling them kids.

"…Sorry?" Kurt said, hefting his backpack on his shoulders as the officer stopped in front of them.

"I've been instructed to encourage everyone to stay indoors where it's safe," announced the policeman, resting his hands on his utility belt. "You should head back home and wait for rescue."

"Rescue," Kurt said, his voice and his expression equally flat. "Uh-huh. Sir, it's been a week and there's been absolutely nothing outside except for looters and animals that got out of the zoo. All due respect, but this city is a death trap."

The officer's face faltered for a second, but he took a breath and recited again, "I've been told to encourage you to stay in your homes."

Santana grimaced, fed up with the policeman already. "Told by who?"

"Mayor De Blasio."

"Well, I didn't vote for him," she snapped. "We're leaving."

"Hey!" the officer called as they immediately began walking in the opposite direction. "You need to go home!"

"Or what?" Santana retorted over her shoulder, refusing to even slow down to speak. "You'll tase us? Haul us off in your cop car? Have fun with that."

As the four of them headed to the Holland Tunnel and left the young police officer stunned in his tracks, Santana could have sworn she saw a savage smile cross Kurt's features. Perhaps they'd be okay after all. They were tougher than she'd thought.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as Puck and Mercedes (and Mr. T) rounded a bend in the highway and stopped short as the hills previously blocking their eastward view dropped away, leaving them to stare at a vast expand of brown, empty land stretching out so far they could almost see the curve of the earth on the horizon. The sun was sinking low and blood red behind them, leaving the sky a blaze of oranges and pinks and blues with not a cloud in sight. Mercedes half-expected to see abandoned cow skulls and rolling tumbleweeds like there were in old Warner Brothers cartoons.

"Is that…?" she started.

Puck nodded grimly, letting out a heavy breath as if he was readying himself to jump off a cliff. "Yeah," he said. "The Mojave."


	10. Ghosts

_DAY 9_

Artie woke up before sunrise to the sound of rain pounding the windows of the Andersons' living room. He propped himself up on his elbows, adjusting the few couch cushions he was using as pillows, and wished he could see something – _anything_. There was no light inside (they'd had a few candles lit earlier, but had extinguished them before going to sleep) and with rain clouds obscuring the sky outside, there was no moon or starlight to cast even the slightest shadow. Artie waved his hand in front of his face, feeling it brush his nose, but was unable to see it in the pitch black.

He sighed and laid back into the couch again, restlessness tugging at his bones but knowing that without any light he wouldn't be able to get up and into his chair. He let his hand fall off the edge of the sofa and reached down to fumble in the dark for Caitlin, who was sleeping on the floor next to him in a borrowed sleeping bag, and felt her shoulder. Gina had offered the second-floor guest bedroom to them both, but Artie wasn't able to get up and down the stairs and Caitlin absolutely refused to leave his side, and the living room was the most convenient option. Once he was satisfied that Caitlin was still breathing beside him, he drew his hand back under the covers.

Artie's stomach churned and twisted and he fidgeted incessantly beneath his blankets, hating the fact that he was trapped on a couch in the dark. Even with his handicap, he'd still always been active and had never thought of himself as restricted. And now, he was confined to a single piece of furniture in an unfamiliar house, left to imagine all sorts of dangers closing in on him in the dark.

Stuck in this state of constant anxiety was how Artie stayed for hours while the rain battered the house and the windows slowly, finally grew lighter in the dreary dawn. As the sun rose unseen behind the thick cloud cover, the living room gradually filled with hollow grey light, and a chill ran over Artie's skin. He shivered and pulled the blankets more tightly around his shoulders, watching the rain pour down the windowpanes in torrents. He thought about getting up, but his chair was on the other side of where Caitlin was sleeping and he would have to wake her up in order to reach it.

Eventually there was a rustling behind him – the sound of slipper-clad feet on hardwood – and Gina walked through the living room, heading toward the kitchen. She glanced down at Artie and Caitlin to check on them, and stopped when she realized Artie was awake.

"Good morning," she whispered, adjusting the tie on her robe. "How'd you sleep?"

Artie gave her a thumbs-up, not wanting to disturb Caitlin, but his sister stirred and lifted her head anyway. She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

"Morning," Gina repeated, no longer whispering. "You guys want some breakfast? We have Pop Tarts and I think some cereal, but no milk. Caitlin, would you like a Pop Tart?"

Caitlin didn't speak.

"She's shy," Artie said awkwardly, knowing full well that shyness had very little to do with it. "Pop Tarts sounds great, thanks."

Gina smiled and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Hey, Cait, can you bring my chair over?" Artie requested once Gina was gone, patting Caitlin's shoulder. Caitlin yawned and stood up, pushing Artie's chair close to the couch and helping him sit up and swing his legs over the edge. From there, Artie heaved himself into the seat, then grabbed his glasses off of the coffee table that had been moved back to make room for Caitlin's sleeping bag.

A heavy _clumping_ noise made Artie look over toward the stairwell by the front door, where Blaine was putting on a pair of rain boots and a raincoat. He gave Artie a wave in greeting.

"What are you doing?" Artie asked.

Blaine zipped up his coat, tugging the hood up over his mussed hair. "We're running low on water, so I'm going to get some buckets from the tool shed," he explained. "We can collect some rain."

Artie nodded. "Smart."

"See you in a bit," Blaine said, and ducked out into the downpour. The door thumped shut behind him.

Artie grabbed his sweater from where he'd draped it over the arm of the couch and pulled it over his head, rubbing his arms to get rid of a wave of goosebumps. "Are you cold?" he said to Caitlin.

She shook her head wordlessly.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, brushing a few dirty strands of hair away from her forehead. Caitlin's hair had been pinned into a braid with the same barrettes for almost a week straight – it was his own doing, but he'd never had to braid anything before and it was mediocre at best. Either way, it had to be so tangled at this point that he was beginning to wonder if he should just cut it off her head entirely.

She only shrugged, her lips tightening for a second before she looked away.

"Caitlin, _please_ talk to me," he pleaded, reaching up to grip her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye again. "Come on."

Caitlin said nothing, only staring at him. She hadn't said a word since their house had been raided five days ago.

"We're safe here," he told her softly. "I promise, we're safe."

She still remained silent, but there was a grumble from her stomach. He sighed, his head dropping for a second, and he squeezed her shoulders one last time before letting go.

"Okay, let's get you some food. We can talk later."

In the kitchen, Gina laid out untoasted Pop Tarts and dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch, wishing that they had hot water readily available so she could make coffee. But with water in short supply and the stove not working, it didn't seem worth it to heat up the little water they did have over the fireplace just for a caffeine fix.

Craning her neck to peer out the window over the sink, Gina could see Blaine stomping out of the tool shed with a few buckets in hand, the hood of his raincoat shielding his face. She suddenly felt a wave of pride swell in her chest – so many horrible things had happened in the past nine days and she barely knew how to function any more, but Blaine was so unbelievably strong. Much stronger than she'd expected.

She looked out the other window, peering through the rain down the grassy slope behind the house to where Cooper was buried, and had to release a long, slow breath in a weak attempt to rid herself of the knot of pressure coiled in her lungs. So much had changed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, and Gina realized that she was grateful she didn't believe in God. If she had spent her life putting her faith into an omnipotent being from above, she probably would be full to the brim with nothing but rage and fury – because really, _how_ could any of this be allowed to happen if it were in the hands of some omniscient singularity? But without anyone watching over them and without anyone to blame, Gina was left only with her grief for one son and her pride for the other.

It was… freeing.

The sound of Artie's wheels squeaking softly on the kitchen tiles finally made Gina turn away from the window, forcing a smile. "Pop Tarts and cereal," she said. "As promised."

Artie pulled himself up to the edge of the table, gently patting Caitlin's shoulder as she followed his lead and sat in the chair beside him. Gina briefly wondered if she would ever hear Caitlin speak.

"Thanks, Mrs. Anderson," Artie replied politely as he poured a bowl of dry cereal for Caitlin.

For half a second, Gina instinctively opened her mouth to tell Artie to call her by her first name, but the words caught in her throat. She heard the front door open and shut out in the foyer as Blaine came back into the house, and Gina watched Artie giving his sister her breakfast and only six words passed through her mind, almost startling her in the harshness of the thought:

 _This boy is not my family_.

Blaine walked into the kitchen then, having ditched his galoshes for wool socks, and shook the rain out of his hair. "I got the buckets all set up," he announced, plopping into a chair across from Artie and grabbing a blueberry Pop Tart. "Hopefully the rain will keep up for a while."

Gina reached over to ruffle her son's damp hair. "Thanks for doing that, sweetie."

And then, for one blissful moment, a wave of calm washed over her as the knot in her chest faded away, leaving her with only a fleetingly wonderful sense of _normalcy_. She wasn't sure where it came from, but her heart almost broke when Timothy leaned into the kitchen with a severe expression etched into his face and asked to speak with her privately. The calmness was shattered on the kitchen floor.

"I'll be right back," Gina said, swallowing as she left the kids at the table and followed her husband into the living room. "What's going on?"

Tim ran a palm over his face, clearly hesitant to speak but still determined. "Gina, when you brought Artie and Caitlin back with you yesterday…" he started, scratching at the underside of his jaw.

"What?" Gina prompted, already suspicious of where this conversation was heading. No, she had not consulted Tim before bringing the Abrams siblings back with her and Blaine. But they weren't stray dogs she'd rescued from some alley, so surely Tim couldn't really be struggling with her decision?

Tim let out a huff. "Gina, how much do you think we can really spare, feeding those two?"

Gina's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"It's just that it's difficult enough to feed three people right now, we can't—"

"Those two?" Gina echoed, drawing herself up to her full height with her spine ramrod-straight. " _Those two_ are incapable of protecting themselves on their own. He is in a wheelchair, and she is a _child_."

Tim pressed his mouth into a thin line, his jaw twitching. "I understand that—"

Gina cut him off a second time, refusing to hear any more. "How dare you even _consider_ throwing them out?"

"Gina, we can't…" Tim trailed off, his words catching in frustration. "Look, I know you miss Cooper, but having two more mouths to care for isn't going to—"

"You know, you're right," Gina snapped lowly. "We should just get rid of somebody and make it easier on everyone else. So how about you walk out the front door and go fend for yourself?"

Tim held up his hands, his brow furrowing. "Now, wait, Gina—" he stammered. "You know that's not what I meant."

Gina crossed her arms, glaring. She had never been so angry with her husband in almost thirty years of marriage, and her outrage was boiling hotly in her stomach. "Doesn't feel so good, does it?" she asked through gritted teeth.

Tim huffed through his nose, carding his fingers through his hair (and were there a few more grey hairs on his temple than she'd noticed before?).

"Those two are staying," she insisted, then turned on her heel and walked back to the kitchen to join the kids, leaving Tim to his own thoughts.

_They are not my family, but I won't throw them to the wolves._

* * *

The first thing Kurt was aware of through the haze of exhaustion was that a woman was shouting, loud but indecipherable and muddled to his fatigued brain as he struggled to wake up. God, his muscles were sore, and he really, really didn't want to move just yet.

An arm slapped him on the back suddenly, jolting him awake and forcing him to sit bolt upright. He didn't recognize the room he was in, and he felt dizzy and out of place. Maybe he was still half-asleep.

"Kurt, get _up!_ " Rachel slapped her arm against his shoulder a second time, and Kurt abruptly realized that the woman he'd heard shouting at first was not, in fact, in his head and instead was standing in the doorway to their motel room, yelling profanities at the four of them.

Oh. Right. _That's_ where they were.

"The hell makes you think you can just break in and sleep here without paying?!" the woman cried, her finger jabbing at Santana threateningly. "I don't care if you all ain't old enough to vote; I'm gonna call my boyfriend and he's gonna come here and beat you with a baseball bat! Get your asses _out!_ "

"We're going, we're going!" Dani protested, her hands held up placatingly as Rachel and Santana quickly shoved the few things that had been unpacked the night before back into their bags. "Kurt! Get UP!"

Kurt blinked, finally snapping into motion and grabbing his backpack.

The motel owner seemed hell-bent on spewing threats and curses at them constantly, barely stopping for a breath as they rushed out the door and past her. "You come back again and I swear to God Almighty, I will call the goddamn police and I will _sue_ your asses!" she screamed after them as they ran (or limped really quickly, in Rachel's case) across the motel parking lot, heading back for the road.

"Jesus," Santana muttered as the motel owner continued to yell from the doorway even after they could no longer make out what she was saying. "And people wonder why I hate New Jersey."

Kurt had to agree. Yesterday they'd made it to the western side of Newark – all the way to Morristown – but even imagining the city lit up by electricity, he hadn't seen a whole lot to impress. New Jersey sucked.

Dani squinted at her watch, her eyebrows knitting in surprise. "It's eleven o'clock already," she said. "How the hell did we sleep that long?!"

Kurt shielded his eyes from the sun, still adjusting to being awake. He was sure there were dark circles underneath his eyes, but at this point he figured personal grooming was one of his lowest priorities. "Walking for an entire day straight tends to take it out of you," he answered dryly. "Plus, it took us a long time to find the motel. We didn't get to sleep until almost midnight at least."

"Well, we need to be getting up earlier," Dani insisted. "We can't waste this much daylight again."

Rachel's crutches suddenly scraped loudly against the pavement and she nearly lost her balance, quickly catching herself by landing on the toes of her injured foot. She sucked in a breath through her teeth, wincing.

"You okay?" Kurt asked, stopping to wait for her.

"Yeah," Rachel insisted, wiping a couple drops of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. "I'm good. Just sore. Let's keep going."

She hobbled past him, catching up in a couple of steps with Dani and Santana. Kurt followed, but something was inexplicably nagging at the back of his mind. He frowned at Rachel's back, studying her and trying to figure out what was bothering him. After a minute or two, though, he saw nothing he could identify as wrong, and he shrugged it off. Everything was fine.

* * *

Carole had spent nearly all of her working life in hospitals, and she had seen plenty of crazy, horrific, and unusual things, but nothing had ever unnerved her quite as much as working in a hospital without electricity. It was dimly lit and quiet, with an oppressive hush like a graveyard that almost made Carole want to whisper every time she opened her mouth to speak. Nearly all the staff was gone, and the hospital was empty and barren on most of its floors. Carole and the four other doctors and nurses who were still coming to work despite lack of pay had laboriously carried all the remaining patients to the first floor for easier care. In the entirety of St. Rita's, there were barely thirty patients left. The rest had either been just barely well enough to go home or had been too ill to live more than a day or two without the support of machines, leaving the upper floors – mainly the ICUs, ORs, and coma wards – littered with corpses.

Sitting behind the nurses' station, Carole was reviewing the handwritten file for Mr. Prescott, the elderly man in room 10 who was slowly dying from pancreatic cancer, and trying to think of another way she could make it easier for him without taking the risk of giving him too much morphine. She wasn't coming up with anything, though, and without an electrically monitored IV drip Carole was forced to return to Mr. Prescott every couple of hours and administer another injection herself.

She sighed, wondering if she should make another round to check on the patients residing on the first floor, despite having checked on them only fifteen minutes ago. Being a nurse within the current state of things was very, very different from before, and Carole found herself obsessively checking and rechecking even the smallest of tasks. With less to keep her busy, she was left feeling jittery and restless, but at least she'd made good friends with Mary Khouri, an immunologist several years younger than Carole and one of the only two doctors still working. Social interaction was something Carole would never again take for granted.

"Well, Mr. Prescott's developed a rash," Mary announced as she approached the counter, circling around the corner and dropping into the chair next to Carole. "It's probably just a mild allergic reaction, but I need you to keep an eye on it."

"No worries," Carole said, shutting Mr. Prescott's medical file. There was nothing else she could do for him right now. "Hey, listen, I was thinking…"

Mary looked up from re-pinning her bun. "Yeah?"

"Maybe we could make signs," Carole suggested. "You know, post them up around town and let people know the hospital's still open."

Mary nodded in agreement. "That's a good idea. There's got to be some stuff in the supply closets we can use."

"We'll have to figure out a way to laminate them or something, to keep them safe from the rain."

"Hm," Mary's brows knitted and her mouth pursed in thought for a moment. "Oh! We could get a few wooden boards from the hardware store and use those."

Carole smiled. "Perfect," she said. "My husband has some spray paint in our garage – I'll bring it tomorrow."

She wasn't sure why this seemingly trivial conversation was suddenly making her so happy – after all, they were stuck in a horrible situation that actually _required_ them to put up signs around town just to let people know there was somebody here to help – but a moment later Carole realized that it was exactly because it _wasn't_ trivial. Yes, they were trapped in horrific circumstances that had left the top floors of the hospital a virtual graveyard of unclaimed corpses and there was no sign of anything changing soon, but the conversation itself was a small change. They were trapped, and left without help, and they were beginning to figure things out. New systems were beginning to take shape, coping with the new world and catering to their survival.

Maybe, just maybe, they'd be okay even if the power never came back.

Carole was yanked out of her thoughts as a loud _bang_ made her and Mary jump in their seats. A man was standing on the other side of the glass door at the front of the lobby, frantically pounding it with his fist. Clutched in his other arm and clinging to his torso was a small boy.

" _Is there anybody in there?! Please, I need help!_ " the man screamed.

Carole and Mary both leapt up from their chairs and ran toward him, yanking the sliding doors apart to let him in.

"What's wrong? What happened?" Mary demanded.

"He – he's having an asthma attack," the man pleaded. "You have to help him, please, I – I can't—"

"Sir, what's your son's name?" Carole asked as calmly as possible, leading him over to the waiting area. "Can you sit him in this chair for me?"

The man set his son down in one of the visitors' seats as Carole directed. "His name is Ph-Phillip," he said, brushing the boy's hair back from his flushed and sweaty face. The boy was wheezing terribly, his mouth open as he fought to draw air into his chest.

"I'll go find an inhaler," Mary said, sprinting out of the room.

Carole unwound her stethoscope from where it hung on her neck. "And how old is he?" she asked.

"Eight." The father wrapped his shaking fingers around the Phillip's hand. "It started two hours ago, and-and his inhaler ran out last week, please tell me he'll be okay—"

"Dr. Khouri's getting him an inhaler now, it shouldn't be more than a minute or two," Carole said, sticking the eartips of her stethoscope into her ears. "Until then, I need you to help me keep him calm. Okay, Phillip, sweetie, can you hear me?"

Phillip nodded, panting and unable to speak.

"Everything's going to be just fine," she promised. She lifted the boy's shirt and pressed the diaphragm to the side of his torso. She could hear the air hissing thinly through his lungs, choked off and tight, and even louder, his heart was racing like a rabbit's. His ribs were desperately expanding and compressing as much as they could while his lungs refused to open.

"His heart rate is fast, but I don't hear any arrhythmia," Carole said, dropping her stethoscope onto the chair next to him.

"Is that good?" Phillip's father asked shakily.

"It's a good sign," Carole answered. She placed her palms flat against Phillip's bare chest. "Sweetie, Dr. Khouri's coming back very soon with an inhaler for you, but right now can you just try to breathe with me? In through your nose, out through your mouth. Just try to breathe as slow as you can."

Carole drew a deep breath in through her nose, coaching Phillip as he struggled for oxygen. She pressed on his ribs with every exhale, and gently forced his ribs to squeeze the breath out to make room for new air. She hoped that the warmth from her palms would help the cells of his lungs to relax.

Mary came rushing back into the waiting area then, an inhaler clutched in her hand, and she dropped to her knees next to Carole.

"You're doing great, Finn," Carole assured him as Mary held the inhaler to his mouth. "Just take a deep breath, you're going to be okay."

As Mary helped the little boy inhale short bursts of medication and his breaths gradually slowed, deepening until he was breathing normally, Carole brushed his hair back and held his other hand. She didn't even notice that Mary was watching her out of the corner of her eye with a frown.

"You feeling better now?" she asked, smiling reassuringly.

Phillip nodded, his fingers tightening around hers. "Yeah," he said, his voice tiny and thin and hoarse. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"Thank you so much," his father said.

"We'll give a few more inhalers to take home," Mary told him, standing back up and adjusting her doctor's coat. "Use them as sparingly as you can. We don't know when we'll have the chance to get more."

The little boy and his father stayed in the waiting area for a short while, waiting for the attack to fully subside. Phillip's father thanked Carole and Mary again and again as he carried his son outside, and Carole swallowed, trying not to think of what might have happened to Phillip if they hadn't come to the hospital.

"We need to make those signs as soon as possible," she said to Mary as they closed the doors again.

"Carole, who's Finn?"

The question sent a cold spike shooting through Carole's chest, radiating out to her fingertips. "What?"

"You called him Finn," Mary said, her brows furrowed.

Carole blinked. She hadn't even noticed. "…Oh."

"Are you all right?"

Carole's lips pressed together tightly for a moment, but she managed a nod. "I'm okay," she forced herself to say.

"Who's Finn?" Mary asked again.

Drawing a deep breath into her lungs – this time because she actually needed it – Carole attempted a swallow to dislodge the boulder nesting in her throat. "He's my son."

"I didn't know you had a son," Mary said carefully, her hands resting in the pockets of her white coat. "Where is he?"

Carole looked away, out through the glass door. "He died."

"O-Oh, Carole, I'm so sorry—"

Carole shook her head, holding up a hand to stop Mary from saying any more. "It was before the blackout," she explained, as if that made it any better. "There was a bleed in his brain, and he was just… gone."

"I'm so sorry," Mary repeated. Carole really didn't want to hear that, but she couldn't really blame Mary for saying it either. There was nothing else to say.

* * *

Despite having absolutely nothing to occupy his time other than making sure he and Carole had enough food and water each day, Burt couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped. He felt like a caged animal, pacing back and forth between home and wherever he could scrounge for supplies in Lima. His fingers constantly itched for some more challenging task, but it was clear that his mechanic skills would to go to waste so long as none of the cars would work. Whatever the problem was, it wasn't limited to vehicles and it went deeper than a few faulty sparkplugs. Carole at least was able to go into town and offer her nursing services at the hospital, which left Burt feeling all but useless. And lonely too.

The house was far too quiet to begin with, and it was even worse when Carole was out. Burt found that he was talking to himself aloud more often than not, and he wondered if this was what it looked like when a person began to go insane.

So finally, Burt left the house on his own, walking towards the center of Lima with the intention of finding anything that he and Carole could use – ropes for clothesline, containers for water, hammers and axes and anything else that might come in handy for even the most trivial jobs. On one of the roads leading into town he found a truck left by the side of the road with a flatbed trailer hitched to the back, and after he'd managed to detach it he dragged the trailer behind him. The metal wasn't meant to be pulled by a person, and it cut into his hands and hurt his palms, but he knew he couldn't carry nearly as much without it.

He reached the center of town sometime around three o'clock, if the sun's position in the sky was any indication. He'd crossed the Spencerville Road bridge over the Ottawa River (which was really barely more than a stream) and over McClintock Lake, and made a mental note to start drawing water from there instead of trying to find bottles in the stores. He'd have to get a water filter too.

When he rounded the corner and stepped into Kinney Square, he stopped in his tracks, the air rushing out of his lungs. The destroyed plane was no longer a new sight, but it still sent a chill down Burt's spine every time he saw it. The fuselage of the Boeing 747 had stopped burning a week ago, but the metal siding remained blackened and sooty, still carrying a strong odor of smoke and spilled oil wafting off the wreckage in the breeze. The one wing that was still attached stretched up into the air and cast a long shadow across the grass in the middle of the square like a gigantic sundial. Burt could hear the wind whistling slightly through a few of the plane's broken windows, and it made his stomach turn to think of what might be inside.

But then again… there had to be luggage inside the fuselage. Luggage meant supplies, and whoever owned it was unquestionably deceased. It wouldn't be quite the same as stealing.

Burt swallowed the nausea that had suddenly welled up in his stomach, and began to drag the trailer on its squeaking wheels toward the wreckage. As the fuselage loomed overhead, eventually covering Burt in its shadow, Burt's heart began to race.

He left the trailer on the pavement close to the plane's side, next to where someone had anonymously left a bouquet of flowers and a couple of candles as a sort of memorial. The flowers had long since wilted and the candle had burnt out, but it still caused a small wave of guilt to wash over Burt.

Some people respect, and some people reap.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Burt edged toward the place closer to the tail of the plane, which had been partially ripped away from the whole and left a huge gap torn through the plane's side. As Burt stepped through the gap, he was suddenly slammed with an awfully overpowering stench of decomposition, and if he had eaten within the last couple of hours he would have turned around and vomited. Instead, he stifled a gag, and lifted the collar of his t-shirt over his nose and mouth. It did little to abate the smell.

Burt held his breath as he reached up to grab the armrests of the nearest seats and hoist himself up and into the fuselage, carefully bracing his feet against the seats' bases since the floor was tilted almost at a forty-five degree angle. It wasn't as dark inside as he thought it would be, since there was sunlight coming through all of the windows, and as soon as he looked down the slanted aisle toward the front of the plane, his heart stopped.

Nearly every seat was occupied.

"…Oh my God," he whispered, not realized he'd spoken aloud. It took him a minute to unlock his muscles, all of which had gone rigid.

His chest felt tight, and he wasn't sure if it was due to the putrid air he was now breathing or if the reason was some unseen force screaming at him to _GET OUT_. But he managed to draw a slow inhale and forced himself to reach up and open the overhead compartment on one side of the aisle.

There were zero pieces of baggage that were undamaged by the fire, but Burt managed to find a handful that seemed only singed on the outside, leaving their contents still useable. Refusing to waste time inside the plane rooting through the passengers' luggage, he only pulled out the suitcases and briefcases and totes and threw them from where he stood to the gap in the wall, letting them land on the ground outside. He'd sort through them in the fresh air that didn't reek of charred putrefaction.

As he worked his way down the aisle, slowly opening each compartment as carefully as he could, the nausea in his gut only worsened. The stench grew stronger the closer to the front of the plane he got, and the air was thickening in his throat. He stopped to catch his breath next to Row 17 and felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Sitting in 17A, next to the window, was the burned and rotting body of a child. He couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, but it couldn't have been older than five.

An abrupt shock of panic coursed over every nerve cell in Burt's skin, and a dull roar filled his ears.

What if Kurt was lying somewhere dead in New York, a thousand miles away and with no one to take care of him? What if something had happened to render him as unrecognizable as the child in 17A, so that even if Kurt's friends were alive and well, they wouldn't even know it was him?

What if Kurt was _gone_?

A sob wrenched out of Burt's throat, startling him with its loudness. He hadn't even realized he was crying.

He clenched his jaw, fighting a second wave of tears, and made a quick decision. The corpse in front of him was somebody's child, and he had no way of knowing whether the two adults in 17B and C were the parents. If his own son were in a place like this, he would give anything to keep his little boy from being left to the crows.

Burt searched the floor of the plane until he found an undamaged blanket tucked underneath one of the seats, and carried it back to Row 17. Leaning over 17B and C, he draped the blanket over the child's body and tucked the edges underneath the torso. The seatbelt had been burned away, and so it was easier than Burt expected to lift the child out of the seat and cautiously maneuver back into the aisle.

With the small body wrapped in the blanket and cradled in his arms, Burt slowly made his way back to the gap he'd come through, struggling to step back onto the ground without the use of his hands. Rigor mortis had set in a long time ago, and the child's body didn't move as Burt laid it on the bed of the trailer. He pulled the corner of the blanket up to cover the child's face.

He would come back for the luggage later. Right now, he would find someplace far away from all this where he could bury the nameless child and leave a marker of some kind – a cross made of sticks, or carved into a tree, or a pile of stones, _anything_ – to make anyone who passed by realize that a life had been lost.

Because, God _damn_ it, someone should be screaming to the heavens and anyone who would listen that this – _all_ of this – was wrong.


	11. The Plague Dogs

_DAY 12_

Kurt, Dani, Rachel, and Santana had nearly made it to Hampton before setting up camp for the night in a field a little ways away from the road. It was their first time sleeping outside since leaving Bushwick, and for the most part Kurt tossed and turned, barely dozing throughout the long hours of the night as he couldn't help imagining all sorts of creatures hiding in the dark (not the least of which was simply other _people_ , carrying guns and knives and who knew what else). Not to mention he was sleeping on the _ground_. He doubted his spine would ever fully recover.

In the morning, the air was thick and muggy and dense with cloud cover. Kurt woke with a start from his light sleep when a mosquito bit his neck and his hand flew up to slap it. "Ow!" He grimaced, wiping the dead bug off his fingers onto the grass near his head and forcing himself to sit up. Dani was already awake and (unsuccessfully) trying to build up a fire with damp kindling, but Rachel was still shivering underneath her blanket. Kurt glanced at their surroundings, past their little campsite toward the empty road several yards away, and the trees lining the edge of the field. Frankly, it didn't look much different in the misty daylight than it had last night.

"I hate New Jersey," Kurt grumbled, tugging at the damp collar of his shirt. He would give anything for a bath.

Dani looked up from what she was doing. "Morning."

Kurt groggily rubbed his eyes with a yawn. "Morning." He rested his elbows on his knees, watching her try to light the sticks in the tiny fire pit she must have dug with her hands (judging by the amount of dirt under her nails). "Why aren't you just using the stove?"

"I don't want to waste the gas."

"So instead you're wasting matches," Kurt retorted.

Dani huffed, dropping her fistful of not-kindling and brushing off her palms. "Sorry for trying," she snapped.

Kurt sighed. "No, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't sleep well."

Dani raised her eyebrows. "I can see that."

"Don't," he winced. "I don't even _want_ to know what I look like right now." He scratched at the scruff under his chin and imagined how _great_ it would feel once he was back home and able to shave again. "Where's Santana?"

"She went to find a tree," Dani replied.

Kurt frowned, turning to look over his shoulder at the woods. "How long ago?"

"A couple minutes, Kurt, relax." Digging into their food bag, she pulled out a granola bar and tossed it to him. "Eat up; we should get going soon."

Kurt yawned again, tearing the wrapper. He wasn't really hungry – which was weird, considering how much energy they'd been spending while traveling – but he forced himself to swallow the dry and distastefully crunchy breakfast. A few minutes passed in silence (except for Rachel's noisily chattering teeth – _how_ was that not waking her up?) before Santana came back from the woods, brushing off the knees of her jeans as she sat cross-legged next to Dani.

"I am so damn tired of using leaves to wipe my ass," she snapped. "I tripped over a stupid root on the way back."

"You poor thing," Dani said, giving Santana a quick peck on the cheek.

"Why the hell is Rachel still asleep?" Santana demanded, glowering at Rachel's back as she tugged the blanket tighter around her hunched and trembling shoulders, her knees pulled up to her chest. Only her hair, dirty and clumped where it was tied into a braid to keep out of her face, was visible.

Dani checked her watch. "It's only eight-thirty."

"Yeah, and she's waking up later every day. We need to get going earlier."

"She's only got one leg to walk on," Dani reminded her. "She's working harder than we are."

Abruptly, loudly, and seemingly without any reason at all, Santana burst out laughing.

Kurt and Dani exchanged a confused glance before staring sidelong at Santana, each wondering what the hell had suddenly prompted her to lose her mind. Kurt was fairly sure she was laughing at _him_ since she was pointing directly at him, but he couldn't figure out what she was seeing. If he'd had something embarrassing on his face, Dani would have said something already (unless she'd drawn a penis on his cheek while he was asleep, but he was pretty sure nobody had brought a Sharpie).

"Is… there something funny?" Dani asked as Santana clutched her sides, almost shrieking with hysterical giggles.

Santana's finger was still pointing at Kurt. "He has a beard! Oh my God!" she managed to choke out between chuckles.

Kurt's mildly worried expression immediately faded. "Santana, I haven't shaved in almost a week. This cannot be the first time you've noticed," he snapped.

"It is, and you look like Amanda Bynes!" she guffawed. "I had no idea you were even _able_ to grow a beard!"

It wasn't the first time someone had made a _She's The Man_ reference at his expense, and he was less than amused. "Did you think that the _men's_ razors in our bathroom belonged to Rachel?" Kurt deadpanned.

"Yes!"

Dani only dug back into the food bag for another granola bar, calmly saying over her shoulder, "You've got to breathe at some point, Santana."

* * *

Mercedes woke up before Puck did, shivering on the cool linoleum floor of the gas station where the two of them had spent the night. She winced and forced herself to sit up, feeling her skin tighten painfully around her shoulders where it was badly sunburned. There was sunlight, harsh and white, coming in through the windows of the gas station, and outside the only view was a flat expanse of sand and rocks and low-standing shrubs, with a line of electrical towers dotting the horizon and a small range of jagged brown mountains far off in the distance.

Puck snorted in his sleep where he lay on the floor a few feet away, using his balled-up sweatshirt as a pillow, then mumbled something incoherent and settled again.

Mercedes sighed, debating whether she wanted to grab a water bottle from their supply bags now or save it for later when they resumed walking across the desert, following the Barstow Freeway. She sighed, hating that it was even a question she had to consider.

Wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on her hands, Mercedes stared out the front windows to where Mr. T stood tied to the nearest gas pump in the shade. Mr. T's tail swished and flicked flies away from her hindquarters. Mercedes frowned, studying the horse. Mr. T seemed to be standing with her head hanging lower than usual, as if her own body were too heavy for her to carry.

Mercedes glanced over her shoulder at Puck, still snoring away on the floor. She stood up despite her protesting muscles and walked outside, pushing through the station's front door. Mr. T barely lifted her head as Mercedes approached and ran a palm down the horse's nose. The animal's coat was damp with sweat and caked thick with dust from the road, and her eyes would only blink very slowly, her movements sluggish if she moved at all.

Mercedes sighed, squinting out across the desert through the rippling air. In all honesty, she didn't care about Mr. T nearly as much as Puck did. He was attached to his pet, and that was fine, but she wasn't as keen on considering the horse to be a pet at all. However, Mr. T _was_ a means to an end, and Mercedes knew that they wouldn't make it out of the desert nearly as quickly without her. Mr. T's health was clearly not at peak, and Mercedes couldn't say she was surprised – there was barely any vegetation out here for a horse to eat, let alone enough water, and she didn't have any idea what kind of diet a dressage horse was used to. Either way, if Mr. T was going to survive, they would have to figure something out to keep her fed and hydrated.

For now, though, Mercedes thought as a wave of sand blew across the empty pavement at her feet, the least she could do was give Mr. T some proper shade. Untying the reins from the gas pump, Mercedes clicked her tongue and led Mr. T toward the station. It took a great deal of awkward maneuvering to keep the door open long enough for Mr. T to squeeze through, but Mercedes at last managed to guide her inside and out of the heat. Well, it was still warm inside, but at least it wasn't sweltering, and linoleum was a hell of a lot better to stand on than hot pavement.

As Mr. T's hooves clopped noisily past the cash register, Puck sat up, squinting in the sunlight from outside with his hair matted from sleep. "What are you doing?" he grunted.

"Your horse is practically dying from the heat," Mercedes said sternly, reaching up to unbuckle the bridle from around Mr. T's head. She realized that she probably sounded like Puck's mother, but didn't care quite enough to change her tone. "We can't leave her outside any more."

Puck at least looked guilty, seeing Mr. T's unhealthy coat and slightly shaking legs.

Mercedes began taking large bottles of lukewarm water from the no-longer-functioning coolers at the back of the station. "Go see if you can find a bucket or something we can use as a trough before Mr. T dries up completely," she ordered, half expecting Puck to snark something back about her being bossier than Rachel ever was. Instead, he immediately got up and pushed through a door at the back marked _Employees Only_ , returning a moment later with a large wheeled mop bucket.

"Will this work?"

Mercedes nodded. "More or less. Come over here and help me."

Mr. T huffed loudly through her nose and butted Puck lightly in the shoulder as he passed her.

"You see?" Mercedes said. "She's pissed at you."

"Shut up," Puck grumbled as he helped her open liter after liter of water and dump them into the bucket. "It's not like I've ever had a horse before. I had a cat when I was like three, but that's it."

Mercedes chortled at the mental image of Puck with a kitten. "Didn't peg you for a cat person."

"I'm not; it was my mom's but she was always out with Bill so I had to take care of it."

"Who's Bill?"

"My dad."

Puck fell abruptly quiet, and for a while the only sound was the loud slurping as Mr. T gulped down as much water as she could stomach. After a minute or so, Puck sniffed, scratching his nose, and grabbed a Nature Valley granola bar from the nearest shelf. He tore the wrapper open and let Mr. T eat the treat from his palm, wordlessly rubbing his other hand over her forehead like he was intentionally avoiding eye contact with Mercedes.

Mercedes sighed, leaning back against the soda cooler. "You miss them, don't you?" she said. "Your family, I mean."

Puck shrugged, gently pulling a snarl out of Mr. T's mane with his fingers. "Dad, not so much."

"Your mom and sister, then."

His mouth tightened, and he scratched at his nose again. "It was what, eight o'clock in Ohio when the blackout hit?" he said, his jaw tightening. "Around eight, anyways."

Mercedes frowned, not sure where he was going with this, but nodded. "Yeah, I think so."

"That's when my mom drives my sister back home from our Nana's house. Every day, once she gets off work." Puck swallowed, glancing out through the front of the gas station at the flat expanses of barren and unfamiliar sand and rock. "If they were in the car when everything stopped, they could have crashed. And even if they weren't, maybe they've run out of food. Or they've been attacked. I saw some nasty crap in the streets before I left L.A. and I'm sure Lima's not any better off. For all I know, they could both be dead."

Mercedes felt her chest tighten. As much as she could, she'd been avoiding thinking about her own family for precisely this reason. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do to make the situation better. "I know how you feel," she added lamely, and even as she said the words they sounded forced.

A grim, pained smile twisted Puck's mouth. "No, you don't," he retorted bitterly. "You've got, what, five brothers?"

"Four."

"And they're all older than you," he continued. "Even if they're not with your parents, they can fend for themselves." He gritted his teeth, yanking his fingers through his hair. "My sister is _ten years old_."

"I'm sorry," Mercedes said again, simply because there was nothing else she could say, no lies she could invent to make him feel better. The two of them were stranded in the middle of the desolate wastes of the Mojave, thousands upon thousands of miles from home. No protection, no ready supply of food and water, no trees to shield them from vultures and the pounding heat of the sun. Out here in the burning sand, there was nothing to hide behind.

Puck's shoulders slumped and he released a heavy breath, patting Mr. T's neck as the horse continued to drink from the mop bucket. "You're right," he said. "We can't leave her outside anymore."

"Maybe we can find some more bags around here," Mercedes suggested. "So we can carry more water." She was glad for the change of topic, but the pressure in her chest was still there.

Puck blinked. "Holy crap. We're idiots."

"Huh?"

"There's no way we can carry enough water for Mr. T, let alone us too," he insisted. "But what if we just travel at night? At least until we get out of the desert."

Mercedes eyebrows shot upwards. She wasn't too keen on the idea of being out there in the dark, with all sorts of sand creatures – poisonous snakes and lizards and spiders – lurking in the shadows.

"Think about it," Puck continued. "It won't be as hot and we won't sweat so much. Plus, no sunburn."

As much as the idea of finding their way across the desert in the pitch black made Mercedes feel queasy, she had to admit he had a point. Mainly about the sunburn – her skin was peeling away from her back and shoulders where it had blistered, and there was already another sunburn developing on her new skin. After a week or so, she'd learned to just tune out the constant throbbing, but it would be nice to get rid of the feeling altogether.

"So?" Puck prompted, leaning on Mr. T's flank as the horse sucked at the last few drops of water clinging to the bottom of the bucket. "What do you think?"

Mercedes scratched at the back of her neck, flakes of dead skin coming away under her nails. "Okay," she agreed. "Looks like we're camping here the rest of today. We'll get going again at sunset."

* * *

_DAY 13_

Kurt watched the sky anxiously as a clump of fat rainclouds rolled by overhead, casting him and the three girls in shadow for several minutes. He hadn't mentioned it aloud and he didn't know if Santana or Dani had noticed this yet, but since leaving Bushwick behind, they had slowed down exponentially. The first day they had covered almost thirty miles, if the road map Kurt had stolen from a Newark gas station was accurate, and then the second day they'd only covered twenty-five. In past two days combined, they had barely made it over twelve. Kurt hated to even think it, but he knew the reason why.

He glanced over his shoulder briefly to check on Rachel, like he'd made a habit of doing every five minutes or so. She was lagging behind, slowing the group to a snail's pace. She needed to stop and rest far more often than the rest of them, and Kurt knew it wasn't her fault, but on the same token… her dragging feet and glacial speed were driving him crazy.

He just wanted to get home as soon as possible. Was that so bad?

For the most part, they'd been passing by expanses of farmland and patches of woody areas. There wasn't an excess of inhabited areas – not many towns where they could find stores to raid for supplies – and even though they had only encountered a few people on their journey, every house they walked by looked presently lived-in. This meant that their bags of food and water were growing ever lighter, a factor that Kurt was sure was contributing to their decrease in stamina.

Kurt pulled his shirt away from where it was sticking to his chest, adjusting the heavy packs on his shoulders. Ignoring the fact that his back and knees were killing him from carrying a load more than half his body weight, he hadn't had a shower or even a sponge bath since they'd left Bushwick five days ago, and he _reeked_. Every pore in his skin felt sticky with sweat and travel grime, and the amount of dirt underneath his fingernails was horrific. And to top it all off, his whole jawline _constantly_ itched underneath the scruff that had grown over his chin.

A few small raindrops landed on the back of Kurt's neck, and he sighed. The air was already thick with moisture (as well as more than enough mosquitos) and the last thing he wanted was to be walking for hours in the pouring rain.

Although maybe, if he was lucky, it would feel enough like a shower to make him relax.

Behind him, Kurt heard the sound of Rachel's crutches scraping suddenly on the pavement, and a small _oof_. "You okay, Rachel?" he asked, stopping for a moment to let her catch up. She had staggered and almost lost her balance.

She sucked in a deep breath through her nose, wiping a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "My foot just hurts; I'm fine." Her face was flushed bright red, her eyes glassy.

"Why don't we rest for a bit?" Dani suggested.

"I'm _fine,_ " Rachel insisted, her wrists trembling where she was gripping her crutch handles.

"Rachel, just rest for a minute," Kurt ordered gently. As much as he wanted to keep going, Rachel was clearly having a very difficult time. Pushing her any harder would be unfair.

Rachel huffed, clinging to her crutches where she stood, resting her bad foot on the tips of her toes and carefully keeping her heel away from the ground. Her whole frame was quaking.

Santana put a hand on Rachel's shoulder and gestured to a fairly large boulder seated in the soil by the side of the road. "Sit down," she directed. "Let me look at your foot."

Whether Rachel actually wanted to rest or she just didn't have the energy to argue wasn't clear, but with a shiver she did as she was told, sinking onto the rock and letting her crutches drop to the ground next to her. Santana knelt in front of the rock and lifted Rachel's leg up, propping it on her knee as she gingerly removed the shoe. Almost immediately, a sharp and putrid odor attacked Kurt's nose, and he had to fight against the urge to gag.

If Santana was bothered by the smell, she didn't let on. Her face was expressionless as she carefully unwound the bandage from around Rachel's heel. She was silent for a disturbingly long moment.

Kurt's eyes widened. Rachel's injury didn't look like it was healing, or even growing smaller. If anything, it looked slightly bigger. Her entire heel was red and puffy, and there was a distinct yellow tinge around the edges of the wound.

"Rachel, has this been hurting more than usual?" Santana asked, her voice perfectly level and calm.

Rachel rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. "I don't know, maybe a little."

"Rachel," Santana said sternly.

"Yes. Okay?" Rachel snapped, scratching at her neck where the sweat had been pooling in the dip between her collarbones. "It's been hurting more."

"Like a throbbing?"

Rachel paused, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly. "Yeah."

Santana reached up and pressed the back of her hand to Rachel's forehead. "Have you been feeling sick at all?"

The smaller girl made a face. "What? No."

"Santana, what's going on?" Kurt interjected.

Santana ignored him, still talking to Rachel. "Answer me honestly. Have you had any fever?"

Rachel pushed Santana's hand away. "No!" she protested. "Why?"

"Your foot's infected. It's making you sick."

"Okay, so… the next pharmacy we see, we'll get some meds," Rachel replied with a nod.

Santana didn't argue, but she didn't voice an agreement either, which made Kurt nervous. Instead, she retied the bandage around Rachel's foot in silence (despite the fact that it was the same one Rachel had been wearing for at least the past two days – they just didn't _have_ anything else to use) and then helped Rachel back onto her crutches. Dani quickly came over to make sure Rachel didn't lose her balance again, walking with her along the road as Kurt hung back with Santana.

"Is she okay?" Kurt asked under his breath.

Santana's expression was severe. "We need to find a pharmacy _now_."

Kurt swallowed, feeling like he might throw up. A few more raindrops pattered against the pavement around their feet. "What if… what if we just sew it up ourselves?"

Santana only glared at him. "Are you insane, Kurt?" she hissed, still making sure Rachel couldn't hear their conversation. "You can't sew an infected cut closed. All that does is trap the infection inside and make it harder to treat. It would just go into her blood faster."

"It was just a suggestion."

"It was a stupid suggestion."

* * *

_DAY 15_

Two weeks. Two weeks of silence. No traffic, no buzzing hum of streetlamps at night, no thumping bass from someone obnoxiously blasting music three blocks away, no sign that any kind of familiar order was still in place beyond Burt's own doorstep. At night, it was all but impossible to sleep, listening to the nothingness outside the safety of their walls, punctuated only by the occasional call of some nocturnal bird or a far-off gunshot out in the darkness. Everything was empty, not just the streets. People were in hiding, like it was the aftermath of some horrific nuclear fallout. Frankly, Burt wasn't sure the comparison was at all inaccurate.

He hadn't made another supply run into town for the past four days, even though he and Carole were by no means well-stocked. It wasn't that he was in hiding too, not like his neighbors, nor was it that he was afraid to face the plane wreckage in Kinney Square again, with its hundreds of charred corpses entombed inside. It was only because of the emptiness, in every place he'd thought to check. There was simply nothing left to take.

If he was being honest with himself, Burt would have to admit that he was a little surprised that food had even lasted this long. But circumstances were different now, and honesty was a terrifying thing.

Today, as Burt stood on his porch watching the road for any sign of life beyond the occasional stranger passing by on their way to and from town, it was even quieter than usual. It was like half of Lima's population had slowly vanished, person by person, leaving their houses and cars behind without so much as a whisper. Burt didn't know if they had actually left town or had just backed deeper into their own homes, but either way, the emptiness was spreading.

He took a long gulp from the glass of water he held in his hands, leaning with his elbows braced on the porch rail, and swallowed with a grimace. He'd had to build a fire pit in their back lawn so they could boil the water from McClintock Lake before drinking it, and even though it was clean it still tasted vastly different from the tap water Burt was used to. He supposed, though, that a detail as small as the taste of his drinking water shouldn't be a big deal given why they were taking water from the lake in the first place.

What he'd give for a cup of fresh coffee. Or a cold beer.

Across the street, Burt saw their neighbor Sandra peering out through her front window between the curtains. She glanced skittishly up and down the street, like she was cowering from gunfire, and when her gaze landed on Burt he raised his arm in a tentative wave. There was a brief moment of hesitation, and then Sandra gave a short, nervous wave and vanished again behind the curtains. Burt sighed; he didn't actually know Sandra all that well anyways. She was barely more than an acquaintance to Carole, let alone him. But he couldn't help feeling slightly disappointed by Sandra's avoidance. Maybe he was too optimistic, but he'd hoped that their neighborhood would work together a little more after the blackout. Instead, they hid from each other. What had been suburban potlucks and neighborhood barbecues only a few weeks earlier was now mistrust and isolation.

Movement further down the road caught the corner of his eye, and Burt felt a small surge of relief as he recognized his wife's silhouette walking down the sidewalk several houses away. She was home much earlier than usual; she hadn't gotten back until after dark most nights since she started at St. Rita's, but now the sun was just barely grazing the treetops toward the western end of the street and there had to be at least another three hours before sunset.

He smiled to himself, glad she was home, and walked out to the sidewalk to wait for her. He waved a hand over his head in greeting, but she didn't wave back. She must not have seen him yet. Burt abruptly felt a strange tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. He squinted through the sunlight, realizing with a start that Carole wasn't walking quite right; her shape was tensely bent and her movements rigidly fearful. She was hugging her stomach, and Burt's heart jumped into his throat.

When she'd left the house that morning, her shirt had been light blue. Now it was red.

Burt broke into a run, dropping his water glass and not realizing that it shattered on the sidewalk. He rushed toward his wife, meeting her almost halfway down the street. "Where are you hurt?" he demanded. "Where are you hurt?!"

Carole shook her head, her bloodstained hands trembling. "I'm okay," she said, her voice cracking.

Burt gripped her by the shoulders, looking her up and down and desperately searching for an open wound. The front of her shirt and cardigan had been soaked red, her jeans stained and her neck and shoulders smeared all over. There was even blood on her shoes, but Burt saw no cuts, no lacerations, not even tears in her clothing. "What happened? Where are you bleeding?"

"Burt," she said, raising her voice slightly to force him to meet her eye. "It's not mine."

He released a heavy breath. She was still standing. She had made it home on her own. He wrapped his fingers gently around her wrists. "What happened?" he asked, more calmly this time.

Carole's face contorted, her chin quivering, and she looked down. "Th-there were some people wh-who…" She sniffed, her fingers clenching into fists in Burt's hands. "They just broke down the doors a-and started sh-shooting— I don't—"

Burt didn't wait to hear any more. He wrapped his arms around her and clutched her to him as tightly as he dared, running his fingers through her hair. "You're sure you're okay?"

She sobbed once into his chest. "I just want to go home," she choked out.

"All right," Burt said softly, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. "Okay, come on, sweetie." He looped an arm around her shoulders and guided her off the sidewalk, back across the street toward their house. Her whole frame was shaking, and Burt was amazed she'd made it back home by herself on such unsteady legs.

Navigating their porch steps carefully with his wife clutched to his side, Burt quickly walked her inside and let the front door swing shut behind them with a heavy _thunk_. He let go of her momentarily to lock it behind him, but when he turned around again, Carole was already out of reach and heading for the stairwell.

"Honey?" he called, but she didn't stop, forcing him to rush up the stairs after her. "Carole, what are you doing?"

Burt wasn't sure where he'd been expecting her to go, but when he saw her push through the door to Finn's room, a shock jolted his heart. Finn's door had been kept closed for months; as far as he knew, nobody had been inside since they had packed up some of Finn's things.

"Carole?" he repeated, more gently this time. The door to Finn's room had swung halfway shut again, and Burt slowly pushed it open, completely unsure if he should be going in to make sure she was okay or giving her some space.

Carole was sitting on the floor with her back against the side of the bed. The closet door was open and she'd dragged out a box labeled _JACKETS & SWEATERS _in Sharpie, tearing open the top and leaving it by her feet. She'd taken out a white and grey striped hoodie and wrapped it across her shoulders, pulling it tight around her torso. She had her knees folded up to her chest and looked like she was having trouble breathing.

"Oh, sweetie," Burt trailed off, kneeling next to her.

"I can't… I can't do this anymore," she said through gritted teeth. Her voice was thin and strained, like it was nearly impossible to push the air from her lungs.

Burt didn't know what to say. His wife – who, for the record, had always been _much_ stronger than him – sat covered in someone else's blood and crying and clinging to her dead son's hoodie like a lifeline, and he just… had no idea what to do. Wishing that there was some magically simple cure-all he could invoke to fix everything that was causing Carole pain – bring the electricity back, bring the other doctors from the hospital back, and hell, bring Finn back too. Carole deserved none of this.

He reached forward and carefully brushed a few strands away from her forehead, her skin burning up under his fingertips. He had no idea if the fever was from sickness or sheer adrenaline. A fresh stream of tears leaked from the corners of Carole's eyes, and she hid her face behind her hands, leaving small streaks of blood on her brows and cheeks.

"Carole," he said gently, taking her arm. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."

A broken sob escaped her chest, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She looked down, tightening her fingers around the fabric of Finn's hoodie. "I – I – I," she hiccoughed. "I got… I got blood on it. I can't—"

"Hey. Hey, it's okay. Look at me." Burt quickly got her attention, brushing a hand over her warm forehead again. "I'll wash it, alright? I'll take care of it, I promise." He kissed the top of her head, slipping the hoodie off her shoulders. He folded it, painstakingly keeping the bloodstained parts of it hidden, and placed it on the foot of Finn's empty bed.

"Burt—"

"It's okay," he assured her again. "It's okay. Come on." Letting her grip his hand like a vice, Burt helped Carole to her feet, looping his arm around her back. She leaned into his side, relying on his weight to guide her from the room (finally, since she'd carried her own weight nearly four miles from the center of town). Burt held her as tightly as he could. He couldn't revive any of her losses, but he could take care of her now.

So he let the door fall shut behind them, sealing inside Finn's empty bed, empty clothes, and empty room.


	12. Here There Be Monsters

As it turned out, Mercedes could not have been more wrong about traveling through the pitch black of the desert at night.  Not because it was any more dangerous than daytime, but because at night the desert was simply anything _but_ pitch black.  No clouds blotted the sky.  There were no tall trees or nearby mountains to block the view, and so overhead was nothing but space.  Even with only a half moon there were billions upon billions of stars illuminating the vast expanse of sand and rock and dust.  The sweeping brushstrokes of the Milky Way painted a glittering river low along the horizon, the constellation Cygnus pointing downwards to the edge of the earth while the Big Dipper hung suspended close to the zenith.  The stars showered an astounding amount of light onto the desert, lighting up the road ahead as well as any streetlamps, and it was easy to see the road signs informing them that they were now crossing the southern tip of Nevada.

Mercedes and Puck were both walking alongside Mr. T, as they had agreed to leave more space on the horse’s back for carrying supplies.  It had been four days since they had begun traveling at night, much to their collective relief – their sunburns had begun to fade, they no longer felt constantly dizzy with dehydration, and even Mr. T wasn’t perpetually covered in sweat. 

But it was strange to travel in this place.

While the desert was more hospitable beneath starlight, it was filled with an ageless oppressive silence, like far-off thunder.  There was an unending soft breeze echoing hollowly across the sand as it whispered through the leaves of the sparse Yucca trees, and having such a boundless view of the universe condensed into what Mercedes could see with her own eyes made her feel strangely claustrophobic.  She had the odd sensation that she was trapped between the knitted layers of earth and space, suspended in limbo, stuck between two dimensions.  Above, an infinite sea of almost-tangible light, and below, the shadows of countless lizards as they slithered onto the warm pavement from the sand.  Neither side felt real.  The silence was seeping into her very pores, and it seemed almost criminal to break it.

And so, as the hours after hours of walking passed, she and Puck didn’t speak.  The only sound was the steady clip-clop of Mr. T’s hooves on the highway pavement as they followed it east.  Each night they waited for the soft line of the horizon to glow from the impending sun before they would retreat into the first gas station they came to for the day.  Once they and Mr. T were inside and protected from the scorching sun, they would sleep and stock up on whatever was left on the station shelves, waiting once again for dusk.

It was a stable enough routine, but the lack of conversation left Mercedes’ mind to wander unhindered.  This in turn left a ball of anxiety sitting heavily in the pit of her stomach, imagining all sorts of nasty fates that could easily have fallen onto her family members back in Ohio or her two brothers who were off in college.  If she could have had God listen to only one of her prayers, it would be to know whether her family was safe and sound, a thousand miles away.  She didn’t even need to see them – she just needed to _know_.

She supposed that there had to at least be a reason for the blackout.  After all, God worked in mysterious ways and it wasn’t as if she’d never had hard times in her life.  Nothing quite like this, to be sure, but Mercedes’ mother had always said God never dealt out anything a person couldn’t handle.  Considering how many corpses Mercedes had seen just lying in the road since leaving Los Angeles, though, she wasn’t sure she still believed that.  She wasn’t sure she still believed in anything.

But maybe – just maybe – this was happening simply because God felt like destroying everything.  It certainly would fit the biblical canon.  The great flood of Noah’s ark, the plagues of ancient Egypt, the blackout of 2014.  It all had quite a terrifying continuity.

And still, as she trekked eastward across miles of desert beneath an immeasurable heavenly display of celestial bodies, her faith was slowly trickling away like sand through an hourglass.

* * *

_DAY 17_

Artie and Caitlin had been staying with the Andersons for a little more than a week now, and it… wasn’t bad.  Blaine was usually good company, and his mom was hospitable.  Tim seemed like he would go out of his way to avoid talking to his guests, though, and Artie was feeling more and more every day like Gina’s hospitality was only surface-deep.  Add to that the fact that Caitlin still hadn’t spoken a word and that he was unable to help out with grunt work like chopping wood, and Artie was beginning to sense that he and his sister were gradually becoming unwelcome.

On top of all of this, the worst part was the boredom.  The last time he’d been to Blaine’s house before the blackout, the two of them had stayed up until midnight slaughtering each other in _Call Of Duty IV_ , but obviously that was no longer any source of entertainment.  Everything Artie enjoyed or was good at – video games, movies, music, _everything_ – relied on electricity and that had been stripped from his grasp without warning or recompense.  Now, he was unavailingly lacking in skills that provided any sort of purpose, and therefore he felt completely and utterly useless.  He was just a lonely parasite, taking up space in the Andersons’ home and leeching off their resources.

As useless as he felt, however, it was actually the loneliness that at last pushed Artie to ask Blaine if he could go out on one of the routine supply runs into town.  Artie immediately felt his stomach twist as Blaine stared at him for a moment in hesitation.  It wasn’t hard to see the question written across Blaine’s face: _are you really able to help, or will I have to watch your back in addition to mine?_

“I can carry a ton of stuff on my lap,” Artie added quickly before Blaine could awkwardly decline.  “And – and we can always hang a couple of extra bags on the back of my chair.”  He swallowed, praying Blaine would accept.  _God_ , he really needed something to do.

Blaine considered this, and then nodded.  “Yeah, man,” he said, shrugging an empty backpack onto his shoulders.  “I could use the company.  It’s creepy being out there by myself.”

A wave of relief washed over Artie in an instant.  He then realized that he hadn’t felt such an urgent need to prove his abilities since the first year or so after his accident.  The pressure was familiar and entirely unwelcome.

Blaine handed Artie a few canvas bags and a backpack, letting Artie stack them in his lap before they headed outside.  Blaine shouted a quick goodbye to his parents, letting the door swing shut behind them.  Artie shivered for a moment; it was bright and sunny but still unusually cool for May.  A crisp breeze wafted past them, making the hairs on Artie’s arms stand erect.

“So where are we going to go?” Artie asked.  He carefully rolled his chair down the makeshift ramp Blaine had constructed out of a wide slat of plywood, nailed over the front steps so that Artie could make it to the outdoor latrine without assistance.  (Artie hated plenty of things about this new version of the world, but not having working toilets was close to the top of the list.)

“There’s an abandoned truck from Target over on Yoakam Road that I saw last time I was out,” Blaine said, tightening the straps of his backpack around his shoulders.  “I’m hoping there’s food in it, but even if there’s not we might find some useful stuff if we can get it unlocked.”

Artie nodded.  “Sounds good,” he agreed, ignoring the tugging in his stomach telling him that Yoakam Road was a little too far.  He kept his mouth shut instead.  He had to pull his weight, wheelchair or no.

It took nearly an hour to cross town southward and make it to Yoakam Road, mostly because Blaine had to walk slowly to allow Artie to keep up.  Artie hadn’t been through Lima since the day he’d gone home with the Andersons, and he’d hoped that things would look at least a _little_ better by now.  Instead, nothing had changed (and really, he shouldn’t have been surprised).  The streets were littered with abandoned cars, some just sitting in the middle of the street, others overturned or blackened and burned.  Occasionally, the driver’s seat was still occupied.

Was it just Artie’s imagination, or were there twice as many crows in Lima as there had been before the blackout?

Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue, blotted with thick rolling rain clouds that cast slow-moving shadows over the road ahead.  A flock of crows flapped up from a clump of trees by the road’s shoulder, squawking and swooping into the air and making Artie jump in his chair.

“I feel like I’m in _28 Days Later_ ,” Artie muttered bitterly.  His arms were killing him – he had impressive upper body strength thanks to his wheelchair, but he was pretty sure he’d never had to make it this far without a car or someone pushing him.

“Tell me about it,” Blaine agreed, hooking his thumbs through the straps of his backpack.  His gaze ceaselessly jumped from place to place, scanning their surroundings for anything – mostly people – that could be a potential threat.

Artie didn’t like living with this level of anxiety.  He wondered briefly if this was what it was like in places on the other side of the world that had been leveled by war – Iraq, Afghanistan, Rwanda…  Maybe it was just America’s turn to be brought down a few pegs.

“Well, if zombies show up, I’m tripping you,” Artie joked nervously.

“That’s fair.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“We’re here,” Blaine announced, lightly grabbing Artie’s shoulder to direct him to the right turn onto Yoakam Road.  “There it is.”

A few hundred yards ahead, sitting diagonally across the street and effectively blocking traffic (not that there was any real traffic to block) was an eighteen-wheeler with the large Target logo printed on the side. 

 _Expect more, pay less!_ it cheerfully promised.

One could only hope.

“What do you think’s in there?” Artie asked as they approached, dwarfed by the truck’s shadow.  The back of the trailer was padlocked.

Blaine grabbed the driver’s handle and heaved himself up to the cab, opening the door.  Artie watched from the ground.  “I’m hoping for a piping hot pizza and a chocolate milkshake,” Blaine answered, leaning into the cab to rummage for the keys.  “What about you?”

“Popcorn with extra butter,” Artie replied, grinning.  “And cold root beer.”

“Nice.”

“Did you find the keys?”

At this point, only Blaine’s feet were visible from Artie’s position on the pavement.  Blaine had climbed almost all the way into the cab to root through the glove compartment.  “No, I don’t see them,” he called over his shoulder.

“Check the sun flap,” Artie suggested.  “That’s where my mom keeps hers.”

Blaine backed up, perching on the driver’s seat to pull down the sun flap.  The keys fell into his lap.  “Got ‘em!”  He pocketed the keys, then swung out of the cab and jumped back onto the pavement.

Together they circled back around to the back of the trailer, and Blaine deftly opened the padlock.  “Fingers crossed for milkshakes and root beer, right?” he said with a smile, and yanked the doors open.

The metal hinges squealed slightly as the doors fell back against the sides of the trailer, and Artie’s jaw dropped.

“Whoa,” said Blaine, his arms falling to his sides.

Inside the trailer was a wall of boxes, untouched, unpacked, and unspoiled.  Labels printed on the boxes’ sides jumped out at them one after the other… Oatmeal.  Canned soup.  Condensed milk.  Corn flakes.  Canned vegetables.  Bagged potato chips.  Protein bars.  Flour.  Chocolate chips.  Tomato sauce.

Blaine tapped Artie’s shoulder, pointing to three boxes near the top.

_Popcorn._

Artie immediately began laughing out loud – he sounded hysterical, he was sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  “Did – did we—?”

“Hit the motherload?” Blaine finished.  “I think we did.”

* * *

The further they traveled into western New Jersey, the more sparsely populated it seemed.  Kurt didn’t know if it was just that the towns were smaller and further apart, or if as the days since the blackout began to tick by, people were simply disappearing.  He didn’t want to think too deeply about it, to be honest.  It had been days since he’d seen anybody other than Dani, Santana, and Rachel.  There was nobody else on the roads – no people traveling in groups, no lone stragglers.  Every house they passed (there weren’t many out here) had been either raided, the doors kicked in and the windows smashed, or simply… abandoned.  Their food supply was running dangerously low.

For the past four days, Kurt, Dani, and Santana had all been scouting vigilantly for pharmacies, hospitals, smaller doctor’s offices – any place that would have unguarded medical supplies.  There was nothing.  Every single facility had been gutted through and through – there weren’t even bandages left behind to replace the dirty strip of cloth Rachel had been using for more than a week.

Kurt wasn’t worried anymore about their decreasing speed.  Instead, all of that worry and fear and anxiety was directed toward Rachel.  Her condition was worsening quickly.  She couldn’t keep up with the group, even at a snail’s pace, and her breaths came rapid and short even long after they’d stopped for the night.  Her teeth chattered relentlessly – not just when she was sleeping – and her sense of balance was deteriorating.  Kurt could see her repeatedly correcting her direction, veering slightly away from the road ahead only to shake her head and pull herself back on track a few seconds later, as if she was too dizzy to properly see where she was going.

It was more than enough to make Kurt wonder if they should just stop and not try to walk any further until Rachel was better, but it was out of the question.  If they stopped, it would only become certain she would never receive medical attention.

So they trudged onward, until they passed a sign reading _Welcome to Stewartsville!  Population: 349._ Another tiny town that was in all likelihood left behind by all three hundred and forty-nine of its natives.

Kurt sighed, watching Rachel lurch on her crutches behind him, struggling to keep up.  He didn’t say anything; it would have been cruel to tell her that if he were walking any slower, he’d have stopped moving altogether.  Dani had shouldered Rachel’s bag, so now Rachel had no load to carry beside herself, but it hadn’t helped for very long.  Her lips were cracked and dry from dehydration despite the fact that she’d been consuming a vastly greater amount of water than them.  And it hadn’t escaped Kurt’s attention that Rachel hadn’t asked to stop for a bathroom break since yesterday.

“Rachel,” he finally said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder (she was much too warm, even through her sweat-stained cotton shirt).  “Honey, stop.”

She did as he said, hanging on her crutches by her armpits as she desperately worked to maintain her balance.  “What?  I’m f-f-fine,” she said through her chattering teeth.  Her eyes were watery and unfocused, not quite able to pick a spot on Kurt’s face to zero in on.  She blinked sluggishly, a bead of sweat falling from her temple.  Her bangs were plastered to her forehead.

“No, you’re not,” he countered with a shake of his head.  He shrugged off the two bags hanging from his shoulders, ignoring the way the muscles of his upper back burned.  He’d gotten used to being sore.  “Hey, guys, can you carry these for a bit?” he said to Santana and Dani.

“What are you doing?” Santana frowned.

“I’m giving Rachel a break,” he said.  “Sweetie, give me your crutches.”

Rachel’s eyes widened as she realized what he intended to do.  “Kurt, I do n-not need to be c-carried.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

Her jaw clacked shut.  He hadn’t spoken harshly, but his tone made it painstakingly clear that he wasn’t going to back down.  She handed over her crutches, wobbling on her good foot and the toes of the other, and Kurt in turn gave the crutches to Dani.  Before Rachel could sway too far and lose her balance entirely, Kurt hunched in front of her and let her cling to his back.

Standing back up, Kurt was shocked to realize that she felt lighter than the bags he’d been toting previously.  How much weight had she lost?

He grunted slightly has he hefted her to a more comfortable position, allowing her legs to hang forward over his hips while her arms wrapped around his shoulders.  In any other situation, he would be embarrassed by almost having to hold her rear end in order to keep her from falling, but after more than two weeks on the road all four of them had adjusted to a distinct lack of privacy.

“Better?” he asked as he, Dani, and Santana set off again, heading into the center of Stewartsville.

Rachel’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly, her whole frame shaking with exhaustion.  “Thank you,” she said under her breath.

He smiled.  “Just get better soon, okay?  I’m not carrying you all the way to Ohio.  Only you would figure out a way to still be a diva with all this crazy stuff going on.”

Rachel giggled faintly, her chattering teeth loud in his ears.  “Girl’s g-gotta be herself,” she said, the air hitching in her chest.

As it turned out, Stewartsville was barely more than a main street and a central intersection, and almost as soon as the group had reached the crossroads in the middle of town, Kurt suddenly felt Rachel’s grip on his shoulders go slack.  She slumped, her head lolling forward.

“Rachel?” Kurt said, halting in his tracks to give her a shake.  “Rachel!”

A few steps ahead, Dani and Santana had both stopped in alarm.  “What’s wrong?” Dani called.  “What happened?”

 “I – I think she passed out,” Kurt said, trying desperately not to let Rachel fall.  It was much harder to hold her up than when she had been doing some of the work.  “Help me, please—”

Santana immediately dropped Rachel’s bags, rushing over with Dani to help Kurt lower Rachel onto the street curb.  Kurt gently caught Rachel’s head so she wouldn’t crack her skull on the cement.  Her eyes were closed.  “Rachel?” he said, shaking her shoulders.  He held her hand and squeezed her fingers.  “Sweetie, come on, wake up.” 

A wave of guilt crashed into him abruptly.  He’d been the one to insist on leaving New York even though she couldn’t walk, he’d been the one who was annoyed when she was slowing them down.  _I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard._

Santana pressed the back of her hand to Rachel’s forehead.  “Jesus, she’s burning up.”

“Where are we going to find antibiotics?” said Dani.  “Every place we’ve passed has already been emptied.”

“I don’t know, but we need to do something.”  Santana forehead creased in a deep frown as she scanned the intersection for anything that might be of use.  Kurt tightened his grip around Rachel’s clammy hand.  “Let’s take her over there,” Santana said, gesturing in the direction of a sign reading _The Snug_ , nailed to a small building sandwiched between a barber shop and a bakery.

Kurt blinked.  “To the bar?  Why?”

“Just help me, will you?”

Kurt looped his arms underneath Rachel’s shoulders, her head falling heavily against his chest.  Santana lifted Rachel’s legs, and together they hefted her upwards, carrying her with some difficulty across the street.  Dani ran ahead and shoved the door to the bar open, holding it while Kurt and Santana awkwardly shuffled inside.

“Is there anything left on the shelves?” Santana huffed as she and Kurt lowered Rachel to the floor.  Kurt sat down and leaned against the end of a booth, holding Rachel to his side.

“Besides the broken bottles on the floor, no,” Dani replied from behind the bar.

Santana sighed, shrugging off the bags from her shoulders with a grunt.  “Damn it.”

“Oh, wait,” Dani amended, bending down and disappearing momentarily below the counter.  “I found a couple that rolled under the fridge.”

Santana immediately brightened.  “What are they?”

Dani popped back up, two bottles in her hands and another tucked under her arm.  “Two beers and… a tequila.”

“Bring the tequila,” Santana directed, reaching down to unlace Rachel’s shoe.  “And the biggest bowl you can find.”

“What are we going to do?” Kurt asked, his heart racing.  He clutched Rachel’s shoulders a little tighter, her skin almost painfully hot through the fabric of her shirt.  He could feel her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, and could only be grateful that she was at least still alive.

Santana gently removed Rachel’s shoe, tossing it aside before peeling away her damp sock and unwinding the bandage stained through with blood, dirt, and sweat.  “We’re going to soak her foot,” she said without looking up.

“Won’t that be painful?”

“Yes.”

Kurt’s heart skipped.  There was a clatter from the back of the bar where Dani was rummaging through the storage cupboards.  Santana lifted Rachel’s foot to scrutinize it more closely.  Although the bar was too dim to see anything with real certainty, Kurt could smell the infection eating away at Rachel’s heel, and it was enough to make him suppress a gag.

Dani finally rushed over with a metal ice bowl, popping the cap off the tequila bottle and pouring it into the bowl.  “Are you sure this will work?” she asked, handing the bowl to Santana.

“No.”

Kurt’s free hand whipped out to stop Santana from lowering Rachel’s heel into the bowl.  “Wait, then why are we doing it?” he insisted.  “If it’s going to hurt her, then shouldn’t we be sure?”

“Kurt, _I am not a doctor!_ ” Santana spat, her voice abruptly rising enough to make the hairs on the back of Kurt’s neck prickle.  “Okay?  I volunteered at the hospital in Lima _twice_ like five years ago!  I barely know First Aid!  I don’t know if this is going to work; I don’t even know if it’s going to help!  All I can tell you is that alcohol kills bacteria, and if this doesn’t get treated, Rachel is going to _die_.”

Kurt flinched, pressing his lips together.  Santana’s eyes were wide, miserable and angry and terrified all in one.  She was on the verge of crying.  For the first time, Kurt saw that she was panicking, and he had no idea what to say.

Santana’s jaw twitched.  “So, would you rather she die soon, or do you want to try and buy us time to find her some real medication?” she asked, her words shaking.  “You’re the one who said we should leave New York.  You’re the goddamn leader.  You tell me what to do.”

A boulder wedged itself between the walls of Kurt’s throat, and he had to fight back tears.  He couldn’t be responsible for this.

“What…” he started quietly, struggling to keep his voice steady.  “What do you want me to do?”

Santana let out a heavy breath, her mouth tightening for a moment as she swallowed.  “Just… hold her.”

Kurt nodded and did as he was told, tightening his fingers around Rachel’s shoulders as Santana placed her foot into the bowl.  The tequila splashed slightly around Rachel’s heel and her leg flinched back, reacting even though she was still unconscious.  Santana gripped Rachel’s ankle tightly and held it so that the wound remained submerged.  A whimper worked its way out of her throat and her face contorted in pain.

“Rachel?” Kurt said, his hand on her cheek.  He kept his other arm around her shoulders.  “Rachel, sweetie, can you hear me?”

Rachel’s eyes fluttered, rolling in her head for a moment before she sucked in a gasp, her back arching rigidly.  Her eyes snapped all the way open, glossed over in fever, and she thrashed, kicking at the bowl.

“Kurt!” Santana snapped, grappling to keep Rachel’s foot where it was and the bowl from spilling.  “You need to keep her still!”

“Sweetie, look at me,” Kurt urged, raising his voice to try and get Rachel to focus on him.  He had to grab her arms and pin them to her sides to keep her from hitting him in confusion.  “Rachel!”

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut and a broken cry bubbled up from her chest, growing into a scream as she struggled to pull her leg away from Santana’s grip.  She looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap.  A small cloud of red billowed from her heel in the bowl – her wound had been torn open again by her desperation to fight Santana off.  Dani had been sitting beside Santana in shock, a hand over her mouth, until Santana finally ordered her to do something.

“I-I’m sorry,” Dani muttered, half in a daze and barely audible over Rachel’s screams.  She quickly propped herself on her knees and reached over to hold down Rachel’s midsection, making it easier for Kurt to keep Rachel in place.

Rachel’s chest was heaving, her breath coming in ragged and hoarse gasps between cries.  Tears streamed down her face, and Kurt couldn’t do anything but clutch her as tightly as possible.  Her eyes were glazed over, her skin burning to the touch and soaked with sweat.  She was delirious, and Kurt suddenly realized she had no idea where she was or what was happening or even that he was there.  His chest ached, but he didn’t know if it was from Rachel’s shoulder pressing into his sternum or if his heart had stopped.

“Rachel, look at me,” he pleaded, planting a kiss on her damp and dirty hair.  “Come on, I know you can hear me.”

Her frame was shaking, and another, quieter sob wrenched from her lungs.  “It h-h-hurts,” she whimpered.

“I know,” he said.  The sheer agony in her voice was harrowing, and Kurt wanted to scream along with her.  “I know, sweetie.  It’ll be over soon.  Okay?”

“It _hurts_ ,” she cried, writhing in his arms.  She was still trying to get away from the pain, but it was weaker now.  She’d already exhausted herself.

Kurt kissed the top of her head a second time, holding her as close to him as he could.  “It’ll be over soon,” he promised, and he promised her again and again.

* * *

By the time the sun dipped red and heavy along the horizon, Mercedes had already been wide awake for several hours.  As exhausted as she was, it was difficult to sleep during the day, with no way to block the blinding sunlight from spilling through the gas station’s large windows.  The most she could do was find a little shade by laying down behind one of the shelves stocked with chips and candy bars.

That was one good thing about the Mojave – thanks to the absolute isolation of the massive desert, there was nobody to loot the stations’ food stores before Mercedes and Puck could get to them.  They’d had no shortage of water and food – junk food, sure, but they weren’t in a position to be picky.  Of course, feeding Mr. T was another matter.  While Mr. T had definitely been feeling better since they had stopped traveling during the day, the fact remained that she was considerably skinnier than she’d been at the start of their journey.  Finding food fit for a horse in this environment was chancy at best, let alone finding enough of it to give proper nutrition.  At this point Mr. T had been making do with munching on the dry shrubs lining the highway, supplemented by bags of Chex Mex and trail mix from the gas stations (after Puck had painstakingly removed all the M&Ms).

On the upside, if Mercedes was reading the map correctly, they’d reach the Colorado River in a few days – maybe even less.  At last, the end of the desert was in sight.

Mercedes chuckled quietly to herself, watching the corner where Mr. T was sitting comfortably on the floor against the wall, her ears flicking this way and that as a couple of flies buzzed round her head.  Puck had slept leaning back against Mr. T’s large stomach, his head resting on her flank.  He was wholeheartedly attached to his pet; Mercedes would give him that.  He’d never been so openly affectionate to anyone in high school – and still wasn’t, at least where Mercedes was concerned – but seeing him abandon all his old male bravado in favor of taking care of Mr. T amidst all the chaos and terror and uncertainty of the blackout was reassuring.  It was a minor comfort, to see something so concretely human.

As the light outside slowly faded from rippling white to rosy pink, to soft orange and finally bloody red, Mercedes sighed and forced herself to stand.  Stretching all the kinks from her back, she felt a small surge of relief that her blisters were finally developing callouses.  “Puck,” she called with a yawn.  “Hey, wake up.”

Puck blearily opened his eyes, rubbing a palm over his face.

“Puck,” she said again, snapping her fingers.  “Come on, the sun’s setting.  We need to get going.”

“Okay, okay,” he waved her off, picking the sleep grime out of his eyes.  “Why does it always feel like we’re leaving earlier and earlier?”

Mercedes snorted, re-packing the sweatshirt she’d been using as a pillow into her bag.  “Hey, don’t blame me if you can’t sleep because you keep drinking sodas and getting a caffeine rush.”

Puck grinned.  “What?  Warm soda’s pretty good once you get used to it.”

Mercedes made a face.  “Gross.”

“It grows on you.”

“Would you get your ass up off the floor already?” Mercedes demanded.  “Let’s _go_.  You still need to get Mr. T’s gear on.”

“Okay, okay,” Puck repeated, finally standing up.  “Jesus.”  He gave Mr. T’s shoulder a sharp pat, clicking his tongue to urge her to her feet.  Her hooves clopped loudly on the floor as she heaved herself up.

Mercedes grimaced as she pulled her hair back into as tight a bun as she could manage.  Her hair was exasperatingly tangled, oiled and dirty from walking for days on end without a thorough cleaning, and she wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she was eventually forced to cut it all off.  “Ugh, I cannot _wait_ to get out of this stupid desert,” she grumbled.  “I need a bath, and at this point I don’t care if it’s in a tub or a damn river.”

Puck laughed, coaxing the bridle over Mr. T’s head and buckling the strap underneath her jaw.  “Yeah, me too,” he said.  “At least we both stink.”

Mercedes ran her tongue over her teeth, which were also in need of a good brush.  Her mouth was dry.  It felt like she had swallowed a mouthful of dust.  “Hey, pass me a Gatorade?” she requested as Puck grabbed the handles of their canvas bags to sling over Mr. T’s back.

“Sure,” he said.  He reached into the bag where they kept the water, and then, without warning, screamed.  His arm jerked back and he dropped the bag, bottles bouncing and rolling over the floor.

Mercedes froze, having no idea what was happening or what she was supposed to do.  Mr. T whinnied, sidestepping anxiously and probably would have bolted if she wasn’t inside, but there was nowhere for her to run.  Puck had fallen on the floor, his limbs flailing as he continued to scream at the top of his lungs. 

“ _GET IT OFF!  GET IT OFF!_ ”

Mercedes’ heart jolted as she realized that, clinging to Puck’s left forearm by its jaws, was a huge orange and black lizard.  “What the—” she started, still stunned and unsure of what to do.

“ _GET IT OFF!_ ” Puck screamed, frantically trying to shake the creature from his arm.  But the lizard had one hell of a grip, and its teeth were sunk deep.

Mercedes grabbed Puck’s baseball bat from where he’d left it by the cashier’s counter and rushed to his side.  “Hold still!” she shrieked, holding the bat overhead.

Puck gritted his teeth, tears streaming from his eyes as he desperately tried to keep himself from moving.  His arm was trembling, and blood was welling up around the lizard’s clamped jaws.  “ _Get it off, get it off, get it off,_ ” he begged, his lungs heaving.

Mercedes held her breath, then brought the bat down as hard as she could.  There was a _crunch_ as the lizard’s ribs were crushed, and it let out a hissing squeak as its mouth finally unclenched from Puck’s arm.  Quickly, before it could move again, Mercedes clubbed it again, and then a third time, and a fourth.  It dropped limply to the floor, its head and ribs caved in and its tail still twitching.

“Are you okay?” Mercedes panted, her heart racing.  She let the bat fall to the ground and sunk to her knees beside Puck.  He struggled to sit upright, cradling his left arm against his abdomen.  The bit mark, closer to his wrist than his elbow, was sluggishly bleeding and already badly bruised.  Little droplets of almost viscous crimson plopped onto the dusty white linoleum floor.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Puck choked out.  He winced, the fingers of his left hand shaking uncontrollably as he tried to catch his breath.

“It – it must have crawled inside while we were asleep,” Mercedes stammered, yanking a t-shirt out of her backpack and wrapping it tightly around the bite to try and stop the bleeding.  The lizard carcass had stopped twitching, lying crushed on the floor.  It was a heavy creature, fat and thick-limbed, with pebbly scales mottled black and bright orange.

Mercedes’ heart skipped, her eyes widening.  “Puck… that’s a Gila monster.”

“A what?”

“A Gila monster,” she repeated.  She swallowed, her fingertips going numb.  “They’re venomous.”

Puck stared at her.

Mercedes didn’t know what to say.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She let out a long breath, feeling cold at her core.  “Does it hurt?” she asked lamely.

“No, it freaking tickles,” Puck spat.  “Yes, it hurts!  I feel like my arm’s going to fall off!”

“Don’t you dare take this out on me!” she snapped back, jabbing a finger at his face.

“Am I going to die?”

The question made Mercedes’ brain jolt to a halt.  Any traces of anger she might have felt in reaction to Puck’s lashing out evaporated in an instant.  Puck’s breaths were coming more rapidly now – he was almost hyperventilating – but Mercedes didn’t know if it was because he was in physical agony or he was simply terrified.  She wasn’t sure which to hope for.

He grabbed her wrist, reaching out with his uninjured arm.  “Mercedes,” he pleaded.  His voice cracked, and Mercedes wanted to cry.  “Am I going to die?”

“I…” she trailed off.

“Tell me!” he cried, making Mercedes jump with his sudden shout.  His hand tightened painfully around her arm. 

Her chest ached somewhere underneath her ribs.  She wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, that they were going to make it home together and he was going to see his mother and sister again soon.  But she couldn’t give him anything but an honest answer.

“I don’t know.”

Puck’s hand slipped away from her arm, a disconsolate breath escaping his body.  He swallowed, swiping his palm over his face in a halfhearted attempt to hide the fact that he was on the verge of tears, but Mercedes could hear the telltale shudder in his lungs.  She had never seen him so frightened, and she was completely, utterly lost.


	13. The Booming Ground

Rachel was floating somewhere in a fog, alone. There was a distantly painful throbbing in her leg, and every time she tried to move her toes it sent a dull twinge up through her bones to her brain. She could barely feel the ground underneath her, and the only thing she could hear was the deafening chatter of her teeth.

Why was she so _cold_?

With shaking hands, she pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, struggling to pull her legs closer to her body. She thought for a moment that maybe she could hear someone saying her name, but her limbs were so _heavy_ and she just wanted to sleep. Lying on her stomach was somehow the only way her head wouldn't feel like it was going to burst.

Her shoulder was suddenly grabbed and shaken, forcing her to open her eyes.

"Rachel," said a voice from overhead. Was it Dani? Or Santana? Why did it sound so far away? Why was everything muffled why was it so hard to _think_? "Rachel, you need to eat something. Sit up. Come on."

Rachel shook her head, her chest tight. Chills coursed over her like ripples on a pond, gooseflesh stretching her skin until she wanted to just peel it from her body to release the _pressure_. Her head was pounding and she was constantly teetering between wanting to vomit and feeling so hungry that her stomach hurt. But she'd tried to eat earlier and every time the food touched her tongue, she couldn't swallow and the nausea came crashing back in.

"Rachel, please," the voice begged. The hand was still on Rachel's shoulder.

God, she was too hot now. Rachel wearily pushed the blankets from her legs and tried to roll over, feeling the sweat that had pooled on her back drip down her sides. She shuddered and gagged as her stomach seized, sending sharp stabs up her throat.

Her mouth was dry. She reached blindly for the water bottle she was sure she'd left beside her, but instead her hand found only grass.

Where was she?

She could remember being indoors last. And pain – horrible, gut-wrenching agony shooting up her leg through her spine to her fingers and lungs and brain. She could remember that.

" _Rachel, please eat something_ ," the voice repeated, only it had changed now, morphed into a sound more familiar and clear. A voice she knew and trusted and deeply missed.

"Dad?" she tried to say. Instead, the word emerged from her chest in a whimper, barely intelligible. She needed to work on her enunciation. She was an actress, after all, and her audience needed to know what she was saying.

She could hear muted applause in the distance, though – a commotion of whispers and rustles and snaps that was barely audible but there nonetheless. Or was it the wind in the branches overhead?

The roaring of the blood in her ears grew louder and drowned it out before she could decide.

There was a hand on her forehead suddenly, making her flinch and pull away. The hand was burning hot to the touch and she was afraid that if it touched her again, she'd go up in flames.

"I've never seen a fever this bad," said the voice. Her dad's tone had disappeared – had he even been here to begin with? – and she wanted to cry. "Her heart's going to give out if we don't do something."

Her heart.

Her heart felt fine. It was her head that wouldn't stop pounding, her stomach that had twisted into knots, her bones that were about to snap with any slight movement, her skin that she wanted to claw from her flesh.

If she could sleep, this would all be fixed. She just needed sleep.

The cold came rushing back into her body, making her bones tremble. She fumbled for the blankets again, but felt another pair of hands lift them over her shoulders, tucking them in around her.

"Rachel, I made you some soup. It's the last can, I'm sorry."

Something hot and steaming was held near her face, and Rachel caught a whiff of chicken broth. Immediately, her gut heaved and she retched, acid burning in her esophagus since there was nothing in her stomach for her to throw up.

"No, no," she groaned, dry-heaving a second time, and then again. Her lips felt numb. How would she be able to sing like this, shivering and almost numb and with her throat burning? Would this last forever?

"Rachel, you _have_ to eat," the voice pleaded.

Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes – she couldn't _do_ this! A sob escaped her throat, and she felt ashamed. She was more professional than this, surely? But she was so _tired_ and everything _hurt_.

There were stars dancing on the backs of her eyelids.

* * *

_DAY 18_

Breakfast at the Andersons' was newly cheerful, for once absent of worry and carefully rationing who ate what and how much of it. Blaine and Artie had returned yesterday weighted down with bags of cereal, condensed milk, oatmeal, packaged ham and salami, dried apricots and banana chips, instant coffee, and even powdered mix for hot chocolate. The five of them sat gathered at the dining table, eating and talking and actually _enjoying_ themselves for the first time in what seemed like years. Even Tim, whom Artie had never once seen smile, laughed at a joke Artie made through his mouthful of Choco-Crunch.

Gina smiled as she poured hot tea into Tim's mug, giving him a quick peck on the cheek and squeezing his shoulder before returning the kettle to the counter. The image of a loving wife and husband was more than familiar to Artie, and despite the fact that yes, he felt truly _safe_ at last, he couldn't help but feel an aching pang in his chest. He hadn't spoken to his parents or older brother since days before the blackout. And as much as this particular morning felt like he was part of a family again, Artie was reminded that it was only himself and Caitlin left.

For the duration of the meal, Caitlin stayed close to Artie's side. She was the only person in the room who hadn't joined the conversation, instead quietly and slowly eating a plateful of dried orange slices and a cup of cocoa. Artie hated to admit it, but he had gotten used to her not speaking, and it took him longer than it should have to notice that she was halfheartedly pushing her food around on her plate more than she was actually chewing and swallowing.

Artie reached over and patted her back, then brushed Caitlin's bangs back from her forehead. They were growing too long; he made a mental note to find some scissors later and give her a trim. His mom would've known how to do it properly, and how to tie her hair back so that it would keep out of her face and still be pretty. But Artie spent a lot of his brainpower these days trying not to think about all the things his parents weren't here to do.

He wished Caitlin would start talking again. For the first few days after the blackout, it had been okay. Artie had been in the middle of making macaroni and cheese for dinner, and it was scary, of course, but they were all right. They'd pretended it was like camping – both of them staying in Artie's room and keeping candles lit and playing board games late into the night. They hadn't realized the world had changed so much outside, and instead they were just waiting for the phone lines to turn back on so they could call their parents.

And then, everything was gone. Just after sunset, nearly a week after the clocks had stopped, there was a pounding on the front door. Then the windows were smashed, and then the door broken down. Artie and Caitlin were dragged from the house and tossed onto the front lawn, Artie thrown from his chair and knocked out with a bat. He could remember Caitlin screaming and clutching his neck, but nothing else until he came around to find their home eviscerated. Caitlin hadn't spoken since that night.

He leaned over and kissed the top of Caitlin's head. For now, the fact that she was safe and not starving would have to be enough. Things were finally starting to look up.

* * *

Santana's frown deepened as she held the back of her hand to Rachel's forehead for the umpteenth time that day. Rachel had been sweating nonstop and was dangerously dehydrated – her lips were cracked and beginning to peel, and her cheeks were hollowed and greyish. The skins under her eyes had deepened to a dark purple. She couldn't stop shivering, and she periodically mumbled incoherent phrases through her delirium.

"How's she doing?" Dani asked, throwing another log on the fire. She was boiling their last packet of ramen in the little pot that had come with the camping stove, which had run out of gas four days ago. They were camped barely a mile from Stewartsville, having tried and failed to keep walking for very long while carrying Rachel.

Santana shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "Worse."

Dani chewed the inside of her lip. "I'm sure Kurt will find something helpful," she said, glancing upwards at the tree branches. "I'm going to go down to the stream and get some more water."

Santana waved her off. "I'll go. You stay with her."

Dani shrugged, moving to sit cross-legged next to Rachel. "What do you want me to do if she wakes up?"

Santana brushed off the seat of her pants. "Last time she woke up, she started crying because she got a bad review for her performance of _Hello, Dolly_ ," she said dryly. "My advice, just go with it."

Grabbing a few empty bottles from the side of the fire where they'd been piling up, Santana made her way down the slope about twenty yards behind their campsite. The ground was soft from layers upon layers of decaying leaves, and Santana's sneakers sunk into the soil slightly with every step. She had to clutch the bottles in the crook of her arm, using her free hand to hold onto the branches of smaller trees and saplings to keep from slipping.

It took her a few minutes to reach the bottom of the incline, where a small stream meandered through a narrow bed of branches, boulders, and pebbles, barely ten feet across. It bubbled and dipped through the rill, formed by years of erosion beneath the constant current. Santana crouched by the stream's edge, balancing on the balls of her feet and splashing a palmful of cold water onto her face and the back of her neck. She shivered, a shudder running down her spine. Even in the warmth of the mid-May afternoon, the stream was icy cold.

She glanced over her shoulder, up the slope towards the campsite. Dani and Rachel were out of view, blocked by the hill and the shady trees, and but Santana knew they were close by. It was strange how comforting that thought was nowadays – just being near familiar people. Kurt had left on his own, heading back to Stewartsville to give the town a thorough search for supplies. It was the first time one of them had been separate from the group since leaving New York, and despite Santana knowing that Stewartsville was only a mile away and empty, she was still anxious for him. Still, she knew the importance of getting Rachel medication, and now that Rachel was completely unable to travel, their options were very, very limited.

Santana sighed, resting her elbows on her knees and studying the woods on the other side of the stream. It was quiet, but not silent. She could hear insects buzzing and see them zigzagging through the beams of sunlight bursting through the thin canopy, small birds chirping and flitting to and fro. Around the trunk of an old oak tree, two squirrels chattered and chased each other.

It was pretty here, she supposed. She had never been one to marvel at natural beauty – she had always preferred high-rises and the bustling flow of traffic and flashing neon signs – but she could see why a person might find a place like this soothing. Personally, she didn't like it much.

She reached forward and dipped her water bottle into the stream, letting it fill before sealing the cap and reaching for another bottle. The water here was clear and free of silt, with nothing harmful to worry about. Bitterly, she knew that if they had stayed in New York, they would have eventually been forced to boil water from the Hudson to drink – and even that would have been disgusting.

God, she missed the city. She missed the noise and the rush and the smells and the _people_.

A twig snapped somewhere to her left, and Santana nearly dropped the bottle in the water. Her gaze jerked up, her leg muscles tightening and immediately ready to bolt.

A deer had emerged from the brush on the opposite side of the stream, tiptoeing to the water to drink. Santana released a small, startled gasp, and the deer raised its head. Santana had never seen a deer in person, and couldn't help but gawk at it. It was smaller than she'd always imagined deer to be, with thin but sharp antlers protruding from its head, curling outwards and up over its ears. The buck remained frozen where it stood, staring back at her with its ears pointed forward, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. Its tail flicked back and forth, flashing white.

Santana teetered on her toes, still crouched but trying her best not to move. She wasn't sure why she was so reluctant to scare the buck off – it wasn't like she had any sort of fondness for wildlife – but somehow she wanted this moment to last as long as possible. It was peaceful, and for once the peace didn't frighten the hell out of her.

The buck stood there unmoving for a long time, gazing unreservedly back at her. Santana wasn't sure how many minutes ticked by (Dani was the one with the watch, after all) before she couldn't keep her legs so rigidly bent any longer, and she had to stand up. The buck remained standing, only its ears moving as they swiveled back and forth on its head. It released a heavy puff of air through its nose, still watching her.

Then, there was a sudden shout in the distance, and the buck turned and fled, its hooves thumping solidly against the ground. Santana's stomach dropped, and she quickly gathered up the bottles in her arms before casting one last look toward where the deer had vanished. She then ran up the slope back to camp.

"What's going on?" she called, rushing back to Dani and letting the bottles fall on the ground beside the fire. Rachel was still unconscious, but Dani had stood and was watching the road several hundred yards away. The shout came again, and Santana turned to follow Dani's gaze.

Kurt was running towards them in a full sprint.

Santana's heart plummeted, every muscle in her body tensing. The last time Kurt had run that fast, hyenas had been snapping at their heels. Dani grabbed Santana's wrist, just as terrified of what might be coming.

" _SANTANA! DANI!_ " he screamed, his shoes pounding the pavement.

"What's wrong?!" Dani shouted.

At last, Kurt skidded to a stop at the campsite, sweaty and dusty and badly out of breath. And… smiling?

"Nothing's wrong!" he panted, shrugging off his backpack and yanking the zipper open. He pulled out a pair of orange pill bottles and tossed them to Santana. "I found these!"

Santana squinted at the labels, bearing only long words she didn't recognize. "What is this?"

"It's penicillin," Kurt said, dropping to the ground in exhaustion. He seized a water bottle from Santana's pile, holding it to his neck to cool his skin. "It's for Rachel."

"Oh my God," Dani breathed, a smile growing on her face. "Kurt, you—"

"I found them and ran back as fast as I could."

Dani laughed, sinking to her knees to wrap Kurt in a hug. "I think you just saved Rachel's life."

* * *

After lunch, Blaine and Artie made a second run to the Target truck. Since the truck's cargo was too massive for them to bring home all at once, they had locked the trailer and kept the keys. It would be their secret reserve, and they planned to gradually move it all, load by load, back to the Andersons' house. They could store most of it in the cellar, and there were a few extra rooms upstairs that could easily be repurposed. Blaine tried not to think about how one of those rooms had belonged to Cooper not too long ago.

The walk to Yoakam Road felt shorter and less dangerous today. Even just knowing that food was suddenly something they didn't have to worry about had lifted an indescribable weight from their shoulders. Thick rain clouds rolled across the sky overhead, providing cool shade and promises of fresh drinking water.

"We should stop by that gardening center on the other side of town during our run tomorrow," Artie said, his wheels crunching slightly on the pavement. "I overheard your mom talking about starting to grow vegetables in the back yard."

Blaine nodded. "That'd be good," he said tightly.

Artie looked at him askance. "Are you okay?"

Blaine sighed, hooking his thumbs through the straps of his backpack. "Are we so certain the power won't come back?" he asked. "I mean, do you really think we need to resort to growing our own crops just so we don't starve?"

Artie's brows furrowed over the rims of his glasses. "You're asking me that question while we're walking three miles just to raid an abandoned truck for food," he said flatly. "So we don't starve."

Blaine's stomach twisted. "Fair point," he admitted.

"For all we know, the power could come back tomorrow, but I don't think it's safe to bet on that," Artie added.

"I get it."

"Okay." Artie backed off, falling silent.

Blaine knew he shouldn't be complaining. After all – they did have the truck. They had enough food to last them for months. His parents were alive. Their house was secure, not looted or burned down like so many others. None of them were sick or injured and in need of a hospital. All in all, things were good. Things _should_ be good.

But on the same token, he couldn't shake the feeling that things would never be the same again. He always avoided looking out the back window to where Cooper was buried, and his mother and father barely mentioned Cooper's death, if at all. Hell, he had no idea what had happened to Artie's parents; he'd never asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Whoa," Artie said, slowing his chair to a stop. He was staring off to the shoulder of the road.

"What?" Blaine stopped as well, following Artie's gaze. There was an abandoned station wagon sitting diagonally with two wheels on the grass, and the decomposing corpse of a man lying crumpled in front of it, his limbs askew. Blood, old and dried, was sprayed across the car door behind him. He'd been shot three times in the chest, no doubt killed for any food or other valuables he might have been carrying.

Blaine frowned, not sure what Artie was reacting to. He had passed this spot nearly every day on his supply runs – the man had been killed weeks ago and his body wasn't anything new. In general, seeing bodies on the side of the road wasn't new. No one had the courage or the resources to collect them.

But Artie looked like he was on the verge of tears. "Is… isn't that Mr. Schue?" he choked out.

Blaine's eyes widened, his attention whipping back to the corpse. Artie was right. Blaine had passed this exact spot almost every day, seen the body every time, and never once realized it was someone he knew.

He took a deep breath, his chest tightening, and turned away. "We need to keep going."

Artie didn't move. "But… shouldn't we—?"

"There's nothing we can do," Blaine said, already continuing down the road. Finally, Artie grabbed the rims of his wheels and rolled to catch up. Neither of them spoke again, and Blaine wasn't sure if the silence was out of respect for the dead, or because there simply wasn't anything left to say.

* * *

A warm breeze blew across the road, tugging at Kurt's hair as he examined Rachel's foot. The shadows were growing long in the afternoon light; it had been several hours since they'd coaxed Rachel to swallow a handful of the pills. Kurt was being impatient, he knew, but he just wanted to see some improvement.

"How's it looking?" asked Dani.

"No better," Kurt replied, letting Rachel's leg back down to rest on the makeshift pillow he'd made of her balled-up sweatshirt. "No worse, though."

"You saved her life, you know."

Kurt smiled, tugging the corner of Rachel's blanket back over her foot. "Well, we're not out of the woods yet," he said, looking upwards at the leafy canopy. "Literally."

Dani chuckled. "You're making puns now?"

"Hey, we've got limited sources of entertainment now. We should probably get our laughs where we can."

"True." Dani stood up, brushing off the seat of her pants and scouting the woods in the direction of the stream. "I'm going to go see if I can find anything edible."

"Santana already went back into town," Kurt said. "There were some places that looked like they hadn't been cleared out yet."

"Well, I'm tired of eating nothing but canned crap," Dani countered. "I want something fresh."

Kurt blinked in confusion, realizing that she wasn't talking about following Santana back to Stewartsville. "What, you're just going to forage for berries or something?"

Dani shrugged, checking her watch. "If I find some." She laughed, seeing Kurt's incredulous expression. "Look, I grew up in an uber-conservative family in Tennessee. My dad and I went hunting a lot when I was growing up – it's not like I can survive with nothing but a knife in my pocket, but I do know a few things."

"All right," Kurt acquiesced. "Just don't bring back anything poisonous."

Dani squinted up at the sun poking through the leaves, then again at her watch. "It's about four o'clock now," she said. "I'll be back in a couple of hours." She waved to Kurt over her shoulder and headed for the stream, disappearing down the slope.

Kurt tossed a few more sticks onto the fire, tucking the blankets more closely to Rachel's sides. Rachel's forehead was still beaded with sweat, but at least her teeth were only chattering intermittently now, and her delirious mumblings had grown rare. He brushed her bangs away from her forehead and out of her eyes, then self-consciously tugged at his own hair. It had been so long since any of them had had a proper haircut or even looked in a mirror, and Kurt knew he probably looked like someone out of a post-apocalyptic movie.

"What I wouldn't give for a spa day…" he sighed to himself, picking a small chunk of dirt from under his fingernail. His cuticles were in atrocious condition. He made a mental note to search for some nail clippers in the next Rite Aid they passed.

"Kurt?" came a small voice.

Kurt immediately moved to sit on his knees, his hand on Rachel's shoulder. Relief washed over him. "Hey, sweetie. How are you feeling?"

Rachel's eyes were bleary and only half open. "I had a dream about Finn," she said softly.

There was an aching pang that shot through Kurt's chest, but he forced a smile, carding his hands soothingly over Rachel's hair. "Yeah?" he prompted. "What was he doing?"

Rachel's eyes closed again, and for a moment Kurt thought she'd fallen back asleep. "We were just talking," she said.

"What about?" Kurt prompted.

Rachel let out a long, slow breath. "I'm tired," she mumbled.

"You can sleep if you want."

"I've been sleeping too much."

"Does your foot hurt?"

"No."

Kurt smiled. "That's good, sweetie. You'll be okay, I promise."

If Rachel thought this was good news, she didn't show it. Kurt couldn't tell if she's slipped back into unconsciousness or if she was simply too exhausted to keep her eyes open.

"You still awake?"

"Mm-hmm."

"You know, we're only a couple miles from Pennsylvania," he said. "If we leave tomorrow morning, we'd probably get there before sunset. And then after that, we're practically home. You'll get to see your dads."

A blue jay cried in the branches somewhere.

"I bet they're waiting for you on the front step."

Again, Rachel didn't respond. Kurt watched the blue jay swoop from one tree to another, crying a second time. A bluebottle buzzed past his ear. Santana would be back soon, and Kurt found that he was hoping she wouldn't return for a while yet. He missed having days with only Rachel, to go for joint massages or to catch dinner and a movie. It was nice here with just the two of them, even if Rachel was sick and they were miles from anywhere they considered home.

If the electricity ever turned back on, this trip would be fantastic inspiration for a movie. They'd have to get Artie to direct.

"You still awake?" he repeated.

Rachel didn't reply, her shoulder rising and falling with each shallow breath. The blue jay cried again in the distance.

* * *

_DAY 19_

By the time the midnight moon peeked over the ridge of the distant rocky hills in the east, Puck's arm had swollen to twice its normal size. His breath was coming in ragged gasps as he clung to Mr. T's mane in a desperate effort to keep from falling off of her back. His left arm had been rendered useless – he wasn't able to move his fingers without crying out in pain – and Mercedes had been forced to fashion a makeshift sling out of one of her tank tops. He rode in the saddle with his head hung over Mr. T's neck, dried up and nearly passing out. He'd vomited too many times already and every time she tried to get him to down a bottle of Gatorade, he couldn't keep it down. Even if the venom in his blood didn't kill him, Mercedes knew that before long, the dehydration would.

Mercedes walked ahead, guiding Mr. T by her reins and praying to the high heavens that they'd get out of the desert before Puck died from sheer agony. She was trying to move as fast as possible, but she couldn't risk making Puck lose his grip. He'd fallen once earlier and it was a hellish struggle to get him back in the saddle.

"Come on, Puck," she said for the thousandth time that night. "We're almost there."

"Stop saying that," Puck slurred through gritted teeth.

"No."

As the half moon climbed higher in the sky, spilling milky light across the sand flats and the road ahead, Mercedes kept her eyes wide and alert. She searched for signs, for tourist markers, anything that might indicate the presence of other people. But there was nothing. For all she knew, they were on the wrong highway and instead were heading south through Arizona to the Mexican border.

 _We're almost there,_ she told herself, refusing to believe she could have read the map so badly.

"Mercedes," Puck said, his chest heaving. "I – I can't keep doing this."

"Just hold on a little longer," she urged. "We'll get there soon."

"No, you're not – you're not listening."

"Puck," Mercedes warned. "Don't say anything."

"J-just cut it off, Mercedes, _please_ ," he cried, reaching down with his good arm to snatch the reins.

Mercedes' stomach flipped over. "Puck, I am not going to cut off your arm!"

"Mercedes—"

" _No_ ," she stopped him from saying any more. "No. You would bleed out. And I won't do that to you." She shook her head, yanking the reins out of his hand. "I won't."

"I'm going to die anyway!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Please, this hurts—"

" _I said no!_ "

Mercedes clenched her jaw, tugging on Mr. T's reins to keep her moving. She refused to look at Puck, despite his continued pleading. She refused to listen.

And then, she saw it.

Barely twenty feet ahead, a smaller road bent off of the main pavement, nothing but dirt but well-packed by tire treads. Overhead was a wooden arch, the paint peeling from the sign atop the gate.

 _RING OF FIRE CATTLE RANCH_ , it read, and Mercedes was sure she'd never read five words so welcome.

"Oh, thank God," she exhaled, leading Mr. T off the pavement and onto the dirt road. They passed under the gate, leaving its long moon shadow in their wake. Mr. T's hooves thudded dully in the sand, muting their steps.

They had barely walked another hundred feet into the dark, following the tire tracks as best they could in the moonlight, when Puck fainted. His fingers let go of Mr. T's mane, and he slid from the saddle, landing in the sand with a heavy _thump_. There was an audible crack as his head hit a rock embedded in the dirt.

"Puck!" Mercedes shrieked, whirling to grab Puck's shoulders and shake him. Mr. T sidestepped, snorting and whinnying in distress. "Puck, come on!"

Puck didn't move, though thankfully he was still breathing. Mercedes heaved him up off the ground, but he was so heavy that she ended up on her rear end with him sprawled across her lap. She wouldn't be able to move him on her own, and she couldn't just have Mr. T drag him on the ground.

So she did the only thing she could think of, and she screamed for help.

Maybe someone would hear her, maybe God would, maybe nobody at all was listening. At this point, she didn't even care who might respond – just so long as someone _did_.

She screamed and screamed until her throat went dry, until it felt like she would start coughing up blood any moment.

And at last, she spotted a pinprick of orange light floating in the distance, bobbing like a cork in water as it drew nearer from a hundred yards down the road.

Then – oh God, and _then_ – a sound came echoing out of the darkness, and Mercedes felt tears of ineffable relief spill down her cheeks without warning.

" _Hello, is anyone out there?!_ "

Mercedes clutched Puck's shoulders with one arm, waving her free hand desperately as high as she could reach. "We're over here!" she called, her voice hoarse and burning in her throat. "We're over here!"

The orange light bounced up and down as whoever held it broke into a run, their footsteps crunching on the gravel closer and closer until the orange light grew into a flame. It was a makeshift torch.

And lit up by the torch's light was the face of a man – dark skinned, long-nosed and wearing a Stetson on top of his head. Mercedes only cried harder.

"Whoa, whoa, now," the stranger said, dropping to one knee. He held the torch aloft to better see her. "What happened?"

In the torchlight, Mercedes saw that Puck's head bore a heavily bleeding cut above his right ear where it had struck the rock. She sniffed, hiccoughing as she pressed her hand to the cut, trying to stem the bleeding. "He – he got bit," she stammered.

"Rattlesnake?"

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her cheek on her shoulder. "N-no, it was a – a Gila monster," she sobbed. She didn't even know why she was crying anymore.

The man glanced at Puck's swollen arm, then patted her shoulder. "Sweetheart, you don't got nothing to worry about," he said. "Let's get him back to the house. You both'll be just fine."

* * *

Kurt woke with a start, although he had no idea what had raised him so suddenly. The night was quiet and still, with only a cricket chirping somewhere in the brush nearby, and his internal clock told him it was the early hours of the morning. Dawn was still a long way off; the moon had set and left only the stars behind, and not even a light breeze shifted the humid air. He couldn't hear Rachel's teeth chattering in fever now, but at least she was finally getting some proper sleep. It was just… calm.

The fire was long dead, but Kurt, his eyes wide in the darkness, could barely make out Santana's shadowed silhouette as she rolled over closer to Dani, sighed in her sleep, and settled again. Kurt lay awake for a short while longer, watching the stars twinkle faintly overhead and listening for anything that might be amiss out in the dark. But the night was silent, and hearing nothing, he eventually dozed, feeling as still and calm as the surrounding air. As he drifted off, he heard the solitary cricket chirp one final time, sounding far away, and then he fell into a deep, restful sleep.

* * *

In the morning, Kurt woke with the dawn and sat quietly savoring his last Clif bar as he waited for the girls to get up. The sunrise was peaceful and rose-colored, the pinkish-yellow sky tossing a soft net of dappled light over the grass and trees lining the road. The breeze gradually picked up, rustling the leaves as small birds – sparrows and chickadees – twittered and flitted back and forth between the branches. A light mist rose from the grass and nearby ferns as the ground warmed beneath them. Kurt wasn't sure what the exact calendar date was any longer, but he was vaguely aware that it was now mid-May. All man-made measurements of time – months, hours, minutes, even seconds – seemed to have vanished, sucked into the intangible ether along with the electricity. Now, for the four of them, the only time marker they had was Dani's watch, and Kurt wasn't entirely unaware of the fact that he was asking her for the time less and less often. Knowing the exact minute of the day had slowly become all but obsolete, and Kurt was free to enjoy the morning for what it was – a single, slow, rose-colored moment.

Just as the sun was beginning to poke through the tree trunks to the east, Santana yawned and sat upright, tugging her hair out of its loose bun to re-tie it. Her movement woke Dani, who then stood and stretched, her vertebrae popping loudly as she reached for the treetops.

"I miss my bed," she stated sleepily.

Kurt stood as well, brushing dirt and small pieces of dead leaves from the seat of his pants. "I'm going to head down to the stream to fill our water bottles," he said, collecting as many Gatorade bottles as he could carry from their packs.

"I'll go with you," Santana volunteered, and the two of them carefully navigated the loamy slope down to the little brook below their campsite. Even if it was only a few yards away, Kurt was glad for the company.

"Do you really think Rachel's ready to travel?" Santana asked as they descended the hill. "I mean, we only found those meds yesterday. She's still pretty sick."

Kurt held onto the trunk of a birch tree to prevent himself from slipping in the loose soil. "Well, she seemed okay yesterday," he said. "She's obviously not going to be all better for a couple more days, but we have the meds now, and she told me her foot didn't hurt anymore."

"Yeah, when she was _lying down_ ," Santana retorted.

"Look, we're letting Rachel set the pace, and we won't push her any further than necessary," Kurt insisted as they finally reached the foot of the slope. "But we can't just sit here for days and wait until she's doing backflips."

Santana huffed, but acquiesced. "I guess."

Before filling their bottles, Kurt and Santana knelt by the stream and splashed water on their faces, rubbing it onto their forearms to wear away the layer that had built up of travel grime and sweat.

"Jesus, that's cold." Santana gave her head a shake. "Well, I'm awake now."

Kurt chuckled, shivering slightly. Despite being just as cold as Santana, he thought the cool splashes felt pleasant. Bathing – regardless of location or method – gave a semblance of routine. Not that they could maintain much of a routine in their current circumstances, but even just splashing his face with water from the stream made Kurt feel a little more human.

After he and Santana had finished their task of retrieving water for the group, they climbed back up the short slope to where Dani was repacking her things. Rachel was still curled up underneath her blankets.

"She's still not up?" asked Santana.

"Oh, leave her alone," Dani said, stuffing her own blanket into her pack. "She's been having a rough go of it. Let her sleep a little longer."

"How much is a little?" Santana muttered to Kurt through the corner of the mouth.

As Rachel continued to sleep, the three of them quickly broke down camp. After what felt like endless nights on the road, they had become remarkably efficient in the various chores necessary for lengthy trips on foot, the setting up and breaking down of a campsite being an integral part of those chores. At this point, it was little more than muscle memory. Once Kurt had finished packing, he examined the map of New Jersey that they had been following since Newark. He was confident they would cross into Pennsylvania today – Easton was only a few miles away.

"Rachel, time to get up," Santana called at last, kicking some dirt over the little fire pit just to make absolute sure the embers were completely out. "We've got to go."

Kurt made a mental note of how far it was to the Pennsylvania border, then folded up the map and slid it into his backpack's outer pocket.

"Rachel!" Santana snapped loudly. "Okay, fine, I'm stealing your blanket." She strode over to Rachel's side and yanked the blanket away with a flourish. Rachel didn't move; didn't even flinch. Santana hesitated, a frown contorting her features. Kurt froze and watched Santana crouch and give Rachel's shoulder a shake.

"Rachel, wake up," she urged.

"Is she okay?" Kurt asked. The pit of his stomach had abruptly gone cold.

Santana was quiet for a moment, her fingers resting on the skin of Rachel's arm. Rachel was facing away from them and Kurt could only see her back and hunched shoulders, her legs folded up close to her body. Her braided hair, messy and clumped from days on the road, hung to the ground in a limp rope. Her arms were tucked to her chest, hugging her torso as if to conserve heat, but her skin seemed to have taken on a hypothermic pallor. Kurt looked to Dani, praying that she was seeing something different, but she only stared at Rachel's back with a hand over her mouth.

Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Kurt felt as though someone had seized him by the throat and was slowly, cruelly, relentlessly constricting his windpipe. The tips of his fingers were numb.

After a heavy, suffocatingly long minute, Santana sat back. She said nothing.

Kurt's knees went weak without warning, and he had to sit down.

"What are we going to do?" asked Dani.

Neither Santana nor Kurt had an answer.


	14. The River Styx

They were unable to give Rachel a burial. They had no shovels or spades, and so were forced to create their own way of taking care of her. It was a long time before any of them allowed themselves to speak or move, just sitting by Rachel's side and willing her to suddenly sit up and yawn, to laugh at them for worrying. The shadows grew shorter as daylight brightened into late morning, then midday and early afternoon, and at long last Dani braced her hands on her knees and softly said, "We could lay her down by the stream."

Kurt shook his head, closing his eyes. There was a boulder wedged in his throat, so tightly that he almost couldn't breathe. "We can't just leave her."

"…I don't think we can do anything else," Dani replied gently.

"This isn't _fair_."

Santana exhaled slow and long, pressing her forehead momentarily to her knees before sitting upright again. "I'll do it," she said, almost inaudibly, then stood.

"I'll help you," Dani offered, immediately moving to get up with Santana, but Kurt stopped her.

"No." He pulled himself shakily to his feet. "It should be Santana and me."

Dani pressed her lips together and stepped back, acquiescing.

"What are we going to tell her dads?" Kurt whispered, half to himself. The air in his lungs was too thin – he wasn't getting enough oxygen.

Santana picked up Rachel's blanket from where it had been dropped on the ground and laid it back over Rachel's shoulders. "Kurt, help me," she said, finally forcing Kurt to move.

Together, without exchanging so much as a word, Kurt and Santana tucked the blanket's edges underneath Rachel's body and lifted her off the ground. Kurt gritted his teeth, biting back tears – why was she so _heavy_? She'd always been such a small person, even with her booming voice and abrasive character. Kurt had made fun of her for it before they were friends, and then teased her about it after they had finally stopped nipping at each other's heels. And now, after days and days of the infection slowly poisoning her, with her arms curled stiffly to her chest and her legs bent to her stomach, she appeared shrunken, wasted and withered.

Kurt couldn't help wondering if she'd looked like this for weeks and he just hadn't noticed – because surely a change like this couldn't happen overnight.

It was a laborious task to climb down the slope to the stream with Rachel in their arms, their shoes slipping on the carpet of dead leaves and damp soil. The shadows in the woods were already beginning to grow longer again as the sun passed overhead, moths dancing in and out of the sunbeams piercing the canopy. There was an inconsiderate blue jay screeching somewhere off in the branches, and the noise made Kurt want to scream back at it.

"Over there," Santana said breathlessly once they had reached the foot of the hill, the tips of their shoes grazing the edge of the gurgling stream. She gestured with her head to a spot across the brook, a clump of white birch trees that stood out from the rest of the vegetation.

Kurt tightened his grip around Rachel's cold shoulders. "There's no way to cross the stream," he said.

"You really worrying about getting your shoes wet?" Santana snapped. "It's a pretty spot, and she at least deserves that."

Guilt slammed into Kurt's chest will all the force of a bullet train – why hadn't he been thinking about that? He should have thought about that. _He_ was Rachel's closest friend, not Santana. It was his responsibility to think about things like that.

"Kurt." Santana – gentler now and almost contrite – broke him out of his daze. She nodded again to the birch trees. "Come on."

Kurt didn't move, his fingers tightening around Rachel. "I – I can't do this."

Santana swallowed, her mouth pressing into a thin line for a few seconds, the corners of her lips turned down. "Dani's right," she said softly. "This is the only thing we _can_ do."

"What, just – just _leave_ her?" Kurt cried, his voice cracking. "Out in the open? We – we can't—"

" _Kurt_ ," Santana insisted. She spoke slowly, every word deliberate. "Listen to me. We can't call anyone for help. We can't take her with us." A few tears escaped from her eyes, dropping from her cheeks, but she didn't falter. "This is our _only_ option. We'll do the best we can with it, I promise."

Kurt's knees shook, and his head spun.

"Kurt. Are you listening?"

A weak breath shuddered from Kurt's lungs, and the blue jay screamed overhead. It dropped from a tree a few yards away, flapping and swooping in a sharp turn and disappearing into the brush.

"Kurt."

Kurt flinched, his eyesight blurring. He shook his head. He could feel his eyes spilling over. "This shouldn't be happening."

Santana's expression contorted, and for a brief moment she looked like she was in just as much acute pain as Kurt. "I know," she whispered. "I know. But… Kurt, we're on our own. There's no one coming to help."

Kurt squeezed his eyes shut. He just wanted Santana to stop talking.

But he knew she was right – he knew, and it hurt. In the back of his head, Kurt could still hear Rachel crying as he held her down and Santana tried desperately to make her better. None of that had worked, though. The cleansing alcohol, the penicillin… Kurt didn't think he'd ever felt so powerless.

"Come on," Santana urged gently. "We have to do this."

Kurt sucked in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for as long as he could, and finally nodded. In this particular moment, there was no room to be weak. Not for himself, not for Rachel, not for anyone.

Water flooded his shoes as he and Santana stepped into the stream, chilling him to the bone as it splashed around his ankles. They were careful not to slip on the stones, slowly making their way to the other side with Rachel cradled in their arms. Shivering and clutching Rachel tightly as they dared, they stepped onto the far bank.

The birches swayed slightly in the breeze, their white spotted trunks echoing with creaks and cracks. The whorls in the bark were black, stark against the white, and eerily resembled dozens of hollow eyes. The leaves rustled overhead, turning the sunlight dappled against the ground.

It was pretty, just as Santana had said, but Kurt couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't real. Everything felt far too intangible.

They lowered Rachel to the ground at the foot of the birches, keeping the blanket wrapped around her. The sunlight danced over her in patches as the leaves quivered in the branches, almost making her cheeks look flushed again. But it wasn't enough to erase the bluish shadows on her lips and eyelids.

Kurt remained knelt next to her for a short while, his mind unbearably quiet – maybe because he simply didn't feel capable of comprehensible thought. Forgetting that Santana was standing there in silence with him, Kurt reached down to wrap his fingers around Rachel's hand. Her fingers were rigid and cold, the bases of her fingernails a deep purple, and for several seconds Kurt failed entirely to breathe.

It was a moment before he realized there was an object clutched in her hand, and he had to swipe his sleeve over his eyes to clear his vision enough to see what it was. He reached into her palm with his fingertips and carefully pulled it from her grasp, gradually so as not to rip it. It was a photograph, folded and crumpled, and Kurt's heart nearly stopped short when he recognized it from a frame Rachel had kept on her dresser back in Bushwick.

Rachel sat between her dads at a birthday party years ago – she couldn't have been older than eight or nine – with a lively, toothy grin and star stickers covering her face. There were party hats and face paint and confetti. Cake slices on the table. Balloons in the background.

Santana's hand squeezed his shoulder, making him flinch. "Let's take that with us," she said quietly.

"We should leave it with her."

Santana crouched next to him, wrapping her arm around his back. "We'll bring it back to her dads. They should have it."

There was a small splash behind them as Dani crossed the stream, coming to stand beside them. She gripped a large bouquet of wildflowers – Queen Anne's lace, purple asters, bluebells, orange coneflowers and violets. "I – I found these along the road," she said. "Thought she'd like them."

"Thanks," replied Santana, letting Dani tuck the flowers into the crook of Rachel's arm.

Dani stood back then, reaching into her pocket to pull out her Swiss Army knife. "I, uh… I thought you guys might want to carve something in one of the trees," she said. "You know, to leave a marker."

Santana nodded wordlessly and took the knife, standing back up. She leaned forward and, in the tree directly above Rachel's head, began to carve meticulously with the knifepoint. She didn't stop until there was the shape of a star engraved in the bark, and in the middle, the initials _R.B.B._

She straightened up again, folding the knife and handing it back to Dani.

"R.B.B.?" Dani asked.

"Her middle name is Barbra," Kurt answered, clutching the wrinkled photograph in his hands. "Rachel Barbra Berry."

* * *

The first thing Mercedes heard was the sound of a horse shrilly whinnying close by, and thinking that Mr. T was in trouble, she sat up with a jolt. Only half a second later, however, she froze in confusion. She was lying in a bed – a _real bed_ – in a sparsely decorated room by herself. Bright white sunlight spilled into the room through the curtains over the window, and a couple of flies buzzed against the glass pane. Outside, she heard the horse whinny again, followed by a man's voice.

"Whoa, now," he said. "Attagirl."

Everything from the previous night came rushing back in a blur – Puck falling from Mr. T's saddle, Mercedes screaming into the dark for help… the stranger in the Stetson running to their rescue. She couldn't remember much after that.

Throwing the thin wool blanket away from her legs, Mercedes swung her legs out of bed and found her shoes sitting neatly on the floor by the footboard. Her backpack, still fully packed, was on top of the small bureau. She tugged her sneakers back on, quickly tying the laces before heading for the door.

She then found herself in a short hallway with a handful of other doors, evenly spaced along the length of the corridor. A long, dusty wool carpet with geometric tribal patterns was the only decoration. Mercedes followed the hall to the door at the end, pushing it open and squinting in the blinding sunlight.

"Good morning!" The man waved to her from the edge of a horse corral several yards away. He was still wearing his Stetson, and his long black hair emerged from underneath it in a single narrow braid. In the corral stood a pair of unfamiliar horses – one cream and the other a sleek chestnut – and Mr. T, her coat newly cleaned and brushed.

"Hi," she replied awkwardly, stepping out of the small building and onto the hard-packed dirt. "Um… where are we?"

The man took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead on his sleeve as he walked over to her. "I guess things were kinda crazy last night with your friend being hurt and all," he said, beating a cloud of dust from the Stetson before returning it to its place atop his head. "This is the Ring Of Fire cattle ranch. Welcome." He extended his hand. "I'm Carter."

"…Mercedes." She hesitantly returned the handshake. "So, where's Puck?"

"He's fine," Carter replied. "We put him up in the room adjacent yours. He'll be out for awhile yet, but he'll come around."

Mercedes' heart leaped in her chest. "He's going to be okay?"

"Oh, sure." Carter nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. "He just needs a couple days of rest. Doesn't even need stitches on his head."

"What about the bite?" Mercedes pressed.

Carter shook his head. "Gila bites don't kill you."

Mercedes' brows furrowed in confusion. "…Aren't they poisonous?"

"Yeah, they are," Carter said. "They're very poisonous. But their venom isn't meant to kill you – it's meant to make you hurt like hell. And it works, as you've seen." He pulled his work gloves from his hands, tucking them into the back pocket of his jeans. "It's enough to kill a little kid, but your friend is big and burly. His body can withstand it. Sure as hell isn't pleasant, though."

"He'll be fine? You're sure?"

"He'll be good as new in a few days."

Mercedes heart immediately returned to leaping. She couldn't remember the last time she felt this relieved.

"How'd he manage to get bit, anyhow?" Carter inquired. "Gilas are about as slow as they come."

"It was in our water bag. He didn't see it."

"Ah. Well, that would do it." Carter tilted the Stetson back slightly. "You hungry?"

Mercedes couldn't help but nod; her stomach had been aching for days.

Carter smiled and gestured toward a modest house on the other side of the corral. "Come on, then," he invited her. "We've got beef and beans cooking."

"I don't even care what it is, so long as it's not gas station junk food," Mercedes said, already following him to the house.

"So that's what you were eating out there," Carter said thoughtfully. "Makes sense. June and me were wondering how you'd made it all the way out here, especially since you said something last night about Los Angeles. That's a long way. Where are you folks headed?"

Mercedes coughed, her mouth feeling dry. She wasn't used to being up and about during the heat of the day. "Ohio," she answered.

His eyebrows shot upwards. "That's even longer."

"Well, it's home." Mercedes scratched at a bug bite on her neck, feeling out of place. Despite spending the better part of the last month crossing the San Gabriel Mountains and the Mojave Desert, she still had not fully adjusted to being so far from a city. She may have been three hundred miles closer to home, but she only felt further away.

"Listen, um…" she started before Carter opened the door to the house. "I want to thank you. For taking us in."

Carter shrugged. "I don't see how anyone could've done anything else."

* * *

_DAY 20_

For the past day and a half, Artie had been suppressing a particularly awful sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He had never really been an anxious person, but in the weeks since the blackout anxiety had become a familiar companion, perched on his shoulder and steadily crushing him bit by bit, bone by bone. He had hoped in time that he and Blaine would forget about seeing Mr. Schuester bloody and rotting in the middle of the street, but he knew that hoping wouldn't do much. The sight of his teacher's corpse was branded into his mind, and there was no getting rid of it.

With that image came an onslaught of terrifying questions – none of which Artie wanted to be thinking about in any amount of detail. It had been weeks since the blackout threw their lives into chaos and he had encountered nobody he knew and trusted besides Blaine. So… where was everybody else? Sam, Brittany, Kitty, Tina… Were any of them alive? Were they lying in the middle of the street with bullet holes in their chests? Were they sick, or starving? What were they doing to survive? Artie knew all too well that gangs were forming, prowling the streets and raiding homes – had his friends joined them?

And what about the people he knew who had moved on to bigger and better things? Kurt, Rachel, and Santana were in New York. Mike in Chicago. Mercedes in Los Angeles. He'd heard that Puck was joining the Air Force – was he stuck on a military base somewhere? It was hard to imagine there could be an Air Force with no airplanes. Artie realized abruptly that he had no idea what the larger cities in the country even looked like now – were they still standing or had they been razed to the ground? Maybe the National Guard hadn't shown up because Washington D.C. had gone up in flames. Or maybe they just didn't care about a small town in Ohio.

There were so many terrifying possibilities and uncertainties now that it made Artie's head spin.

"Artie. Hello?"

Artie blinked, straightening his back. Gina was giving him a strange look from the other side of the dining table, and he realized he had been spacing out for several minutes. His oatmeal had gone cold and stiff.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry," Artie replied, probably a little too quickly. "I didn't sleep much last night."

Gina didn't push him further, instead turning to offer her husband more coffee. Artie cleared his throat, catching the glance Blaine had shot him from across the table. Neither of them had told anyone about Mr. Schue, and Artie was fairly sure that neither of them would. To consciously acknowledge that the bodies on the streets were people – and might have even been people they knew – would only make things harder.

What concerned him, however, was that Blaine hadn't even spoken to Artie about it in private. Artie had asked Blaine once or twice if he was okay, but his inquiries had only been brushed aside. There was no way Blaine hadn't been affected – the past two nights Artie had tossed and turned, his dreams full of gunshots and screams and familiar faces – but if Blaine was suffering from similar nightmares, he wasn't letting on.

"Are you and Artie going on a run today, Blaine?" asked Gina.

Despite the anxiety gnawing away at Artie's stomach, he felt a tiny surge of pride at Gina's assumption that he would contribute. It had been far too long since he truly felt useful, and Gina's casual inclusion of him in the day's tasks was a welcome reassurance.

"Yeah, I think so," Blaine said, scraping his bowl clean.

"Would you mind stopping at the garden center out on Angel Avenue?"

"Sure."

"I'll write you a list of things to look for." Gina stood and began to clear the dishes, turning her attention to Caitlin as she did so. "Caitlin, would you like to help me with the garden later? We have to make room in the back yard for vegetables."

Artie was unhappily not surprised when Caitlin didn't respond, slowly chewing her last bite of cereal. He reached over and squeezed her shoulder, having adjusted over the most recent weeks to speaking for her.

"I think that'd be fun," he told Gina.

"Nothing's fun anymore."

Simultaneously, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled around to stare in shock at Caitlin, and for several seconds Artie didn't fully comprehend that his sister had just spoken for the first time since their home was attacked. She had been silent for so long that at this point, her voice sounded strange and unfamiliar – even to him.

He responded hesitantly, carefully choosing his words in his head before uttering them aloud. "…Cait, it would be really nice for you to give Mrs. Anderson some help," he said gently. He could talk to her later, privately, about what had made her finally speak again.

Caitlin only glared at him, her eyes burning.

"Artie, it's fine, she doesn't need to," Gina interjected.

"WHY ARE YOU PRETENDING EVERYTHING'S OKAY?!"

Caitlin's shout was loud and piercing, and it made everyone at the table jump. Artie flinched, his eyes widening. He'd never seen his sister so furious.

"Caitlin!" he said sharply, but his warning made her even more irate.

"MOM AND DAD ARE _DEAD!_ " she screamed. "AND PROBABLY ISAAC TOO!" With that, she lurched to her feet, kicking her chair back, and ran from the room.

"Caitlin, wait—!" Artie called, fumbling to yank up the brakes on his chair. "Caitlin!" He pulled himself back from the table and wheeled quickly after her, turning down the hallway just in time to see her dash up the stairs to the second floor. He gritted his teeth, rolling to a stop at the foot of the stairwell. "Caitlin, will you come down here? Please?"

Gina approached him from the end of the hall, her brows furrowed. "Is she all right?"

"I – I don't know," Artie sighed in frustration. Everything would be so much easier if Caitlin would just _talk_ to him.

"If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"Thanks. And, um… I think I should probably stay here—"

Gina cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Don't worry. Tim already said he'd go on the run with Blaine instead."

Artie nodded gratefully. "Okay. I-I'm sorry about Caitlin; she just…"

"Artie, you don't need to explain. Or apologize. These are hard times for everyone. The best thing you can do right now is take care of your sister."

Artie swallowed. Blaine's mother had been so kind to both him and his sister when it would have been so much easier to leave them to fend for themselves, and he had no idea how to thank her.

Gina straightened her sweatshirt on her shoulders. "I'm going to go get started on the garden," she said, and left Artie at the foot of the stairs.

The minutes ticked by and Artie called for his sister over and over again, but there was no reply from upstairs. It was an immature reaction, to run and hide in a place she knew he couldn't reach, but Artie couldn't say he didn't understand it. So he waited, and eventually Blaine and Tim passed him on their way out for the supply run. With Gina out in the garden area and Blaine and his father walking to Yoakam Road, Artie and Caitlin were the only ones left in the house.

"Caitlin?" he called, his hand resting on the stairway banister. "I know you don't want to talk, but I also know you can hear me, so just listen, okay?"

There was no sound from overhead. Artie drew a deep breath and continued.

"Do you remember was Mom told us when you were getting bullied at school last year? You were upset because Alec Pickenson kept throwing rocks at you during recess, and the teachers didn't do anything because nobody ever saw him do it."

A rock worked its way into Artie's throat as he spoke. He missed the days when their problems had been as simple as bullies on the playground.

"Mom said we were a team – you, me, and Isaac – and that we had to watch out for each other. Remember? So Isaac and I skipped classes to visit your school, and we told Alec that we would beat him up and I'd run him over after, and he never hit you again. That's our job, because we're your brothers and you would do the same thing for us."

There was a beat of silence – horrible, suffocating silence – and then a rush of relief in Artie's chest. Caitlin had stepped out of hiding, appearing at the top of the stairs.

"Mom grounded you guys for two weeks after that," she said flatly.

Artie couldn't help but smile. "I know, it wasn't what she meant, but I'm still glad we did it. Plus, the look on Alec Pickenson's face was priceless."

Caitlin pursed her lips, her arms crossing over her chest.

"Look, Cait," Artie started again. He pushed his glasses up. "Mom, Dad, and Isaac aren't here, but you can't think that they're gone. They're _tough_ – all three of them. And look at us. We're okay, so they've got to be too."

Caitlin sniffed. Her face was blotchy. "But what if they're not?"

"Hey, come down here," Artie beckoned. At last, Caitlin came down, descending until she was standing on the last step in front of him. He reached out to hold her hands in his. "I know for a _fact_ that Mom and Dad are up all night, every night, worrying about us. They miss us like crazy, and they're going to be on the first plane back the _second_ the power turns on again."

Caitlin's chin trembled. "But what if it doesn't and we're stuck like this forever?"

"Then they'll find a boat," Artie countered. "Sooner or later, they _will_ be back. I promise." He brushed a few stray hairs back from her forehead. "And Isaac isn't even that far away. I bet he's on his way from Philadelphia right now."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely positive," he swore. He really wasn't, but Caitlin didn't need to deal with all of his uncertainties. That was his job.

* * *

The garden center and plant nursery squatted at the far end of a small shopping plaza – mostly hardware and electronics stores, plus a Starbucks – on the outskirts of central Lima, where the downtown sprawl began to give way to picket-fenced suburbia. It was only four miles from the Andersons' home, so it took less than two hours for Blaine and his father to arrive at the no-longer-automatic front door. Tim wedged his shoulder against the door, forcing it to roll back and allow them inside.

Blaine was surprised to find the interior much more intact than he'd expected. The shelves were still upright and fully stocked, and in the back of the facility he could see that the greenhouse walls remained unbroken. The sunlight filtered softly through its glass ceiling and reflected into the front of the store, keeping it well-lit and comfortably warm. The air was thick with the pleasant odor of organic fertilizer, mulch, and damp soil. Aside from the cash register at the counter, which had obviously been broken into and emptied before being knocked to the floor, there were no signs of looting or vandalism.

It seemed… safe.

"Why don't you look through Mom's list," Tim suggested, handing over the folded piece of notepaper from his breast pocket. "I'll go look through the greenhouse and see if there's anything we can use."

Blaine nodded, and Tim left him to meander through the aisles. Once he located the rack storing packages of vegetable seeds, Blaine quickly filled his backpack, only glancing at the list occasionally to make sure he was grabbing the correct items.

Then, a faint scratching noise from the stack of shelves behind him made Blaine stop where he was, warily turning to look over his shoulder. At first, he saw nothing, but a small moving shadow caught his eye behind a display of tiny ceramic flowerpots. Frowning, Blaine reached over to lift away the pot in the center. There was then a hissing squeak and a flash of bared rodent teeth, and the rat leapt from the shelf and scurried across Blaine's boots. Blaine jumped, letting out a yelp of surprise as he accidentally dropped the flowerpot. It shattered on the floor with a loud crash, seeming almost earsplitting in the otherwise quiet shop.

Tim's footsteps pounded toward Blaine from the direction of the greenhouse. "Blaine?!" he called in alarm. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine," Blaine assured him quickly, zipping up his backpack as Tim came down the short aisle to meet him. "Got startled by a rat."

"Ah." Tim calmed, his shoulders relaxing. "Could've been worse."

"I found all the seeds Mom wanted except for beets," Blaine said. He slung his bag over his shoulder. "Can't say I'm unhappy about that, though."

Tim chuckled. "You know, beets were your favorite when you were a toddler. Your teeth would get all red and you and Cooper would pretend to be vampires."

A rock squeezed into Blaine's throat without warning. Any words he might have thought of to respond with died in his chest.

Tim exhaled, glancing at the floor. He rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. "I miss him."

Blaine coughed in a halfhearted attempt to clear the boulder from his esophagus. "Yeah, me too." His reply came out hoarse. "We should head out. We can probably make it to the truck in an hour."

Tim didn't move right away. Instead, he clamped a hand onto Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine, I want you to know how unbelievably _proud_ of you I've been the past several weeks," he said.

Blaine swallowed, avoiding his father's gaze. He was pretty sure he hadn't done anything worth being proud of, but Tim was still talking.

"You've done such an incredible job helping everyone – even Artie and Caitlin. Finding the truck, going on supply runs almost every day… You're helping us _survive_." Tim squeezed Blaine's shoulder, and for a second Blaine thought his dad might cry. "Cooper would've been proud too."

"Thanks, Dad," Blaine said. His chest felt cold underneath his ribs. "We should, um… we should go."

"Okay," Tim said, patting Blaine's shoulder solidly one more time.

Outside, Blaine had to squint in the sunlight as his eyes readjusted. There had been a few splotches of cloud cover when they had arrived at the garden center, but the breeze had picked up and blown them westward. The days were getting warmer as summer gradually pushed spring out of its way. A flock of sparrows flitted and darted between the decorative bushes bordering the far edge of the parking lot, and over the treetops lining the road ahead, a twisting plume of smoke rose into the sky.

"What the…" Blaine trailed off.

Tim shielded his eyes, studying the smoke. "It's probably one of the gangs. Some of them have been setting fire to the houses once they're done looting them."

Blaine didn't bother telling his father that he already knew this. He'd been outside more often than Tim had, and he had seen for himself the houses that had been razed to the ground. But he had only seen those houses long after the fires had gone out; he'd never caught one as it burned.

"Should we go help them?" Blaine asked.

"And… do what?" Tim said. "We don't have any weapons to fight off other people." He sighed, then nudged Blaine's shoulder, gesturing southeast in the vague direction of Yoakam Road. "Come on, we need to make it to the truck and back home by sunset. It's already getting late."

Blaine hesitated. "Hey, Dad?"

"What?"

"My friend Sam lives near here. Could we go visit him?" Blaine requested. "I just want to make sure he's okay."

Tim turned over his shoulder for a moment to glance at the sun. "Looks like we've got about five hours of daylight left," he said. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Blaine nodded. "We're close anyway; it won't take long. He lives on Brackett Street."

"All right. Lead the way."

* * *

The edges of Puck's brain felt fuzzy, like his skull was filled with cotton. There was a dull throbbing ache in his hand and fingertips, stretching up through the bones of his left arm all the way past his elbow to his shoulder. His fist clenched involuntarily, sending a painful jolt over his skin as his eyes snapped open. His vision was blurry at first, and he had to blink several times before he could see that he was indoors – an unfamiliar room lying in a bed that didn't belong to him.

"Puck? Can you hear me?"

Mercedes was sitting in a chair by the edge of the bed, her hand on Puck's good arm.

"Where are we?" he tried to say, though it came out as more of an unintelligibly groggy slur than anything else.

Mercedes leaned back so that Puck could see that someone was standing next to her – a woman, copper-skinned and with her black hair pinned up out of her face. "Puck, this is June," said Mercedes. "She and her husband took us in."

"How does your arm feel?" June asked.

Puck winced, his fingers twitching. "Hurts like hell," he replied, managing to speak clearly.

June lightly tapped Mercedes' upper arm, making her move back to give June room to sit beside him. "I'm going to take the bandage off to look at the bite, okay?" she said, and it was only then that Puck realized a small section of his left forearm was expertly wrapped in clean white gauze. "I have to make sure it's healing. It might sting a bit."

Puck nodded and allowed June to reach over to lift his arm and move it closer to her, resting it on his abdomen. He swallowed, his tongue like sandpaper. His forearm was still awfully swollen – he could barely see the veins in his wrist – and it was sore and tender, but at least it didn't feel like it was on fire any more. June gently unwrapped the gauze, carefully coiling it around her fingers until it was completely off.

"It looks better!" Mercedes said, giving Puck a relieved smile.

The bite was deep, but it had obviously been thoroughly washed while he'd been unconscious. The dried blood that had been heavily caked around the wound was gone, and despite the pain currently sending twinges up Puck's arm and the fact that his forearm was still inflamed, it didn't look all that bad.

June was still frowning, squinting into the rip in Puck's skin. "It is better," she said. "But there's a tooth stuck in it."

Any relief Puck had experienced the past several seconds evaporated suddenly, and he jumped. "What?!"

"Calm down," June directed coolly, gently holding his wrist in place. "You need to keep your arm elevated."

"What do you mean, 'there's a tooth'?!" he exclaimed.

"It happens sometimes with Gila bites," June answered. She calmly stood and straightened her plaid button-down shirt. "I'm going to go get my tweezers from the house."

"I'm going to be sick," Puck said, his head falling back onto the pillow. He had to hiss through his teeth when a sudden pang shot through his skull, making his eyes scrunch up. "Ow!"

Mercedes reclaimed her seat beside him. "You hit your head last night," she explained. "When you fell off Mr. T."

Puck almost sat straight up. "Where's Mr. T?" he demanded.

"Whoa, relax," Mercedes assured him, pushing him back down with a strong hand on his chest. "Mr. T's fine. She's outside. June and Carter fed her."

Puck exhaled in a huff. He hated feeling so disoriented.

"I'm just glad you're still alive," Mercedes continued. "Don't scare me like that again, okay?"

"I'll try not to," Puck replied dryly, forcing a small smile. He let his eyes travel around the room, studying the sparse furniture and lack of decoration. "Where are we?"

Mercedes followed his gaze to a framed black-and-white photo on the far wall, depicting the silhouette of a man swinging a lasso. "It's a cattle ranch," she answered. "It's probably the only thing out here. June said we're just north of Laughlin – still in Nevada." She grinned, nudging Puck's side with her elbow. "But guess what."

Puck returned his attention to her. "What?"

She gestured out the window over his bed, holding back the curtain to expose a wide expanse of dirt and scant vegetation. There were a few fences in sight, forming corrals for a couple of horses. "You see that ridge over there?" Mercedes asked.

Puck squinted into the sunlight, lifting his head to better see where she was pointing. A little more than a mile away was a low range of jagged rocky hills, darker brown and rilled all over. "Yeah."

"The Colorado River's just on the other side."

Puck blinked. "Seriously?"

Mercedes nodded, a wide smile spreading across her features. "We made it! We're almost out of Nevada."

He couldn't suppress a laugh that jumped abruptly from his chest. "We should have stopped in Vegas."

Mercedes snorted. "To do what, gamble? Something tells me Las Vegas would be even worse than L.A."

There were footsteps outside the door, and then June re-entered the room with tweezers in hand. Mercedes moved back again, letting June sit in the chair next to the bed.

"Okay, let's have a look," June said, taking Puck's arm.

"Alright, I can't watch this or I'm going to puke," Puck said, steeling his nerves. Mercedes gave his leg a supportive pat from where she stood at the foot of the bed.

June leaned closely over Puck's arm, holding his wrist with one hand and carefully wielding the tweezers with the other. Puck sucked a breath through his teeth as the tweezers poked into the bite mark, and a sharp pinch jolted over his skin. And then, it was over long before Puck expected it to be, and June sat back.

"There's the sucker," she said, taking Puck's opposite hand to hold his palm open. She released the tweezers and dropped a tiny, sharp, blood-flecked white object smaller than a thorn into his hand.

Puck held it up, pinched between his fingertips to study it. "That is _so_ gross," he stated. "…I'm keeping it."

June cleaned the tips of her tweezers on the hem of her shirt. "How'd you get the Gila to let go? They're pretty strong."

"…I kind of hit it with the baseball bat," Mercedes said with a sheepish smile.

June's eyebrows shot up, and she didn't return the smile. "Did you kill it?"

Mercedes nodded. "Yeah, I hit it a few times."

"That's too bad." June's voice was cool, her words tight. She reached over and began re-wrapping the bandage around Puck's arm. "They're a threatened species. There's laws protecting them."

"Well, I don't think we have to worry about the police right now," Puck joked, still fascinatedly scrutinizing the Gila fang.

"No, you don't," June said stiffly, her mouth a steely straight line. "Maybe you can put the tooth on a necklace."

She deftly finished replacing Puck's bandage, then stood up, dragging the chair to a spot in the corner. "You need rest," she ordered. "Keep your arm up on a pillow so that the swelling goes down."

Puck dropped the tooth onto the little end table by the head of his bed and gave a two-fingered salute with his good hand. "Yes, ma'am."

Mercedes patted his leg through the blanket. "I'll be back later to bring you some food, okay?"

Puck nodded, settling down into the mattress. Even with his arm still in pain, he hadn't felt this comfortable in ages. Today was a good day.

Out in the hallway, Mercedes let the door to Puck's room close behind her as she followed June outside. Her stomach grumbled unhappily in her gut – not because she was hungry, but simply because her stomach wasn't used to being full. A month ago, she'd never thought she'd ever have to re-adjust to eating well.

"So, can I ask why you and Carter live all the way out here?" Mercedes asked as she and June stepped out into the blinding sunlight.

June unfolded the sunglasses she'd been carrying in her breast pocket and slid them over her eyes. "We used to live on the Fort Mojave reservation down by Goose Lake in Arizona, but Carter and I moved up here about ten years ago. We needed more space for the herd." She waved a hand in the direction of the mass of cattle milling about the fenced-in yard a few hundred yards away.

"Are you Navajo?" Mercedes inquired bluntly.

June gave a sidelong glance in Mercedes' direction, but with her sunglasses covering her eyes, it was difficult to tell if she was offended by the assumption or not. "People always think that," June said after a beat. "It's the only tribe from this region they know. Navajos are further south."

"Sorry," Mercedes amended.

"We're from the Mojave tribe."

Mercedes' brows knitted together in confusion. "I thought Mojave was a Spanish word."

"It is. So is Navajo. And, now that you mention it, so is Mercedes."

Mercedes stopped short. How was she supposed to respond to that?

June didn't press the conversation any further, but she didn't laugh and brush it off either.

After a moment of silence broken only by the sound of the hot breeze rushing past them, June turned and began walking in the direction of the horse corral. "Come on. Come help me feed the horses," she directed, beckoning Mercedes over her shoulder. "When you're on a ranch, you have to work."

* * *

It felt like he hadn't been to Sam's house in years, Blaine realized as he and Tim followed the curve of Gregson Lane toward Brackett Street. He was pretty sure the last time he'd hung out with Sam at the Evans' home was sometime in January. They must have been studying for a paper or something. Maybe an assignment for Mr. Schuester.

The memory of Mr. Schue sent a jab of nausea through Blaine's gut, and he quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

As they made the turn onto Brackett, Blaine and Tim watched the houses suspiciously, watching for any signs of life or movement. The hairs on Blaine's forearms were standing on end, and his hands tightened around the straps of his backpack.

The last time Blaine had been here, Brackett Street had been a calm, quiet suburban neighborhood. Most of the residents had flower gardens in their front yards, and there was always someone out walking their dog. It was the sort of place where parents would let their children play outside unsupervised. Now, it was almost unrecognizable. The quaint neighborly street had devolved into a deserted war zone.

Blaine felt his heart thud more rapidly in his chest as they passed by a pair of side-by-side houses, both burned beyond repair. There was another eviscerated house a few doors up, and nearly every home in between had broken windows and doors. There was trash strewn across the lawns and the street, debris left behind from the lootings. The flower gardens were already beginning to look overgrown.

"Where is everyone?" Blaine said under his breath. _And why does it feel like I'm walking into a cemetery?_

"Maybe they've gone to look for their families," Tim suggested. He didn't sound all that confident. "Which one is your friend's house?"

"It's a little further," Blaine replied, pointing a short distance up the street to where it curved just out of sight. "Around the corner."

"It's getting late. We should hurry."

It was unbearably quiet here, and Blaine jumped when a crow suddenly squawked from one of the trees overhead. It swooped downwards and flapped off in the other direction, disappearing behind an emptied house. Blaine's heart was racing in his chest, and he was abruptly struck with the feeling of wanting to go _home_.

"You okay?" Tim asked.

"Yeah." Blaine forced a nod.

They rounded the bend in the road, and the breath rushed out of Blaine's lungs. All that was left of the Evans' house was the charred frame and part of the back wall. The roof, reduced to scorched shingles and melted aluminum rain gutters, lay collapsed across what had been the living room and kitchen. It couldn't have burned down long ago; the air still smelled faintly of charcoal and smoke.

When Blaine's eyes landed on what remained of the front porch, he doubled over and retched onto the pavement. A blackened corpse was lying prone with its arm hanging off the edge of the singed deck. Only the arm hadn't been charred completely, instead bearing open heat blisters all the way down to the wrist. It was a man's hand.

Blaine couldn't tell if the body was Sam or his father.

Tim quickly grabbed Blaine's shoulders, supporting him as Blaine threw up a second time. His stomach twisted; there was barely anything left of his lunch.

"Blaine," Tim said firmly. "Blaine, look at me."

His chest heaving, Blaine couldn't tear his gaze away from the corpse.

Tim moved to plant himself in front of Blaine, breaking his line of sight and forcing Blaine to meet his eye. "Listen to me," Tim ordered. "Take a breath."

Blaine tried – he really did – but the air was stretched and far too thin as it passed through his sinuses. His chest felt like it would explode any second. His heartbeat roared in his ears, pulsing all the way down to his fingertips. The blood in his veins was boiling all over his body, and Blaine wanted to scream, but his lungs had closed up tight.

He couldn't breathe.

"Blaine," Tim repeated. "Hey, look at me. You're okay."

"I – I can't—" Blaine tried to speak clearly, but his voice was hitching in the pit of his throat. "I c-can't do this."

"We need to go, Blaine," Tim urged, gripping Blaine's shoulders tightly. "Come on. Forget the truck; we're going home."

"I can't – I can't—" Blaine stammered. His brain was burning up inside his skull. His eyesight blurred and his cheeks felt wet – when had he started crying?

"Look at me," Tim coached. "Slow down."

"I can't do this. I – I—"

"Yes, you can, Blaine. Come on. Let's go home."

Despite Tim blocking his direct view, the image of the charred body was branded into Blaine's eyes, and it was all he could see. Pictures began to flash across his mind in rapid succession, of the dozens of unnamed deceased he had seen sprawled on the sides of roads and out in the open at the mercy of the crows and other scavengers. Of the numerous people he _knew_ were entombed inside the plane wreckage at the center of town but didn't have the courage to fully acknowledge. Of Cooper. Of Mr. Schue.

"I left him," Blaine whispered.

"What?" Tim frowned, worry creasing the skin between his brows. "Left who?"

"M-Mr. Schue," Blaine said. His voice was shaking so badly he wasn't even sure his father could understand him. The words began to rush out of him, almost unintelligible but demanding to be released. "He – he brought me home the night of the blackout a-and now he's dead and I left him there to rot—"

"Blaine, slow down," Tim ordered, raising his voice.

Blaine's stomach clenched, and a sob wrenched out of him. "Am I really this numb?"

Tim blinked, taken aback or perhaps confused by the question.

The lack of an answer made a hollow ache bloom in Blaine's chest, and he couldn't speak anymore.

* * *

Burt lay wide awake in bed next to Carole, listening to the sound of his own breathing. He didn't think he'd ever quite get used to his bedroom being pitch black – before the blackout, even in the middle of the night there had always been the calming glow from the nearest streetlamp out front, the luminescent alarm clock on Carole's nightstand, the tiny blinking light on the smoke detector… He'd never realized how much light they really used at night until it was all gone.

And now, he understood what it meant to be afraid of the dark.

Most nights were now spent in restlessness, tossing and turning but being far too alert to really sleep for any healthy length of time. Burt would listen to the quiet outside the house – mostly filled with the chirps of nearby crickets or the scratching pitter-patter of a nocturnal rodent running across the roof, but occasionally a far-off gunshot would make him shudder and grit his teeth. The worst part about all of this was knowing there was nothing he could do. Not without risking his own life, and he wasn't willing to leave Carole all alone – not after the shooting at the hospital.

Since Carole had come home quaking and covered in blood, she had been different. She flinched more readily, was less willing to leave the house, and routinely had nightmares bad enough to wake her up. She wouldn't complain, but Burt knew she hated being home alone too, which made it hard for him to leave her every time he went to retrieve water from the lake. Like him, Carole had been sleeping less than was healthy, but she didn't toss and turn. She instead lay unmoving and awake, facing the bedroom window with her back to him as if she was waiting for something better to happen.

And so, when the abrupt sound of shattering glass cut through the quiet from downstairs, Burt and Carole were already awake. Burt bolted upright in bed, already fumbling for the aluminum baseball bat he kept on the floor next to him.

"What was that?" Carole whispered, her voice shaking in the dark.

"Someone's in the house," Burt hissed, gripping the bat tightly as he crossed their bedroom floor, groping for the door handle. He could hear Carole throw back the covers and follow, shivering behind him as he cautiously turned the knob and pulled the door open. In the hallway, faint light from the moon spilled in through the windows and made the shadows grow long and more defined.

There were voices downstairs. Burt could hear at least two men.

"Burt, what if we just let them take it?" Carole murmured, her hand tightening around his arm. Her eyes were wide in terror.

"They're stealing our _food_ ," Burt countered, struggling to keep his voice down. "Stay here."

"I'm not letting you go down there alone," Carole spat under her breath, slapping his shoulder lightly with the back of her hand.

Burt didn't argue with her, instead holding his breath and beginning to tiptoe down the stairs. Carole followed suit, and as they edged along the stairwell, snippets of what the burglars were saying reached their ears from the kitchen.

"…got plenty in here."

"I dunno, man, it looks like this is all they have. You sure you don't want to check next door instead? That house is bigger."

"That house has kids."

"Yeah, I'm not stealing from kids, dude."

Burt halted for a moment. That was a third voice. He counted three voices so far – all male – but he could hear footsteps in the living room too. Four was too many.

"Come on, let's pack this crap up and get out of here."

"Alright, alright. Sheesh."

But if Burt just let them take everything, then he and Carole would have nothing left. They couldn't afford to let this go – they wouldn't be able to replace it, and then they would starve.

Burt drew a deep breath in through his nostrils, waiting for the footsteps in the living room to rejoin the men in the kitchen.

"I didn't see anything else worth taking," the fourth person said, coughing lightly. Burt was surprised to realize it was a woman's voice.

"Give me your bag."

There was the sharp noise of a duffel unzipping, and cans of soup clunking solidly against each other as they were tossed inside. Burt's hands tightened around the handle of the bat, raising it over his shoulder as his muscles tensed.

"Hurry up," said the woman. She sounded nervous.

"Hey, if you want to help, you are _more_ than welcome," one of the other men snapped. A handful of cans thudded dully as they were dropped into the duffel.

"I'm keeping watch."

"For what? There's no one here."

Burt's teeth ground against each other, his fingers squeezing the handle of the bat so tightly that his nails dug into his palm. He glanced briefly at Carole, and then carefully edged out of the stairwell and through the darkened living room. There was a flickering orange light illuminating the kitchen and reflecting off the walls, and Burt caught a whiff of smoke – one of the burglars was carrying a torch.

Burt exhaled slowly, willing his heart to slow down. It was knocking against his ribs at an alarming pace, but he managed to steel his nerves, swallow once, and step into the torchlight with the baseball bat raised.

"Get out of my house," he snarled.

All at once, the four thieves jumped. The man closest to the refrigerator let out a startled cry, dropping the cans he was holding onto the floor. Burt was suddenly struck that these people were not at all what he'd expected to find. He'd thought they'd be dressed all in black (like the burglars he'd always seen on TV), tough men who were obviously seasoned criminals. Maybe a prison tattoo or three. But these people… they were dressed in jeans and hoodies, with dirty hair and scrawny limbs. The man – or boy, rather – who held the torch couldn't have been older than seventeen.

"Get out!" Burt shouted before he could lose his cool, shaking the bat.

Then, Carole shrieked behind him and before Burt could react, there was a deafening _click_ just next to Burt's ear.

"Drop the bat," said the woman, pressing the cold nose of the gun to Burt's temple. He hadn't seen her take it out of her belt.

His blood ran cold, spreading outward from his chest to his limbs. His teeth clenching, Burt dropped his arms, letting the tip of the bat hit the floor. The woman reached forward to snatch it from him, and when she did Burt's heart dropped into his stomach.

"Sandra?!"

Sandra, who had been their neighbor for the past four years and had welcomed them to the neighborhood with her homemade pecan pie and peanut butter cookies, kept the gun aimed at Burt's head. Her hand was shaking, her finger dangerously close to the trigger.

"We're taking the food," she said. A tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

"Sandra, you—" Carole started, grabbing at Burt's shirt as if she was terrified she was about to lose him. "Y-you don't have to do this."

The gun trembled in Sandra's hand. "I'm so sorry," she said, her face pinched with something akin to grief. "I'm so, so sorry."


	15. When The Levee Breaks

Pennsylvania welcomed Kurt, Dani, and Santana without fuss or fanfare. The metal truss bridge traversing the state border between Phillipsburg and Easton was nothing special, and as they crossed over Dani couldn't help wishing they would be met with some sign – a chorus of angels, an explosion of fireworks, _anything_ – to show that they had accomplished something. Instead, it felt like just another day. Just more walking, more miles to cover. Their bags felt heavier now than when they had left New York, although their supplies had been completely depleted. None of them had eaten since leaving Rachel outside Stewartsville, and even then it had only been a halfhearted swallowing of whatever they'd had left in the bottoms of their packs. It had been more of a forced consumption than eating, and Dani was fairly sure that when Kurt had excused himself to go to the bathroom out of view behind a few trees an hour afterwards, he had only thrown up the little he'd eaten. Santana didn't seem much better – she and Kurt were barely speaking, just taking the road one step at a time and avoiding conversation. They both had an almost eerie fog over their eyes, like they couldn't shake themselves out of last night's nightmares.

As for Dani… well. She couldn't quite get rid of the rock sitting in the pit of her stomach – although she didn't know if it was from hunger or distress – and she had no idea how to handle this. They had lost a living, breathing person, and now the group felt unbalanced and off-kilter. None of them had seen this coming. Though, when Dani thought about how sick Rachel had really been over the past several days, maybe they should have. She supposed that up until Rachel's death (and _Rachel_ and _death_ were two words that should _never, ever_ have gone together) nobody – herself included – had quite processed or accepted the fact that any of this was truly real. Now, cruel reality had delivered a ruthless blow, and they were all struggling not to collapse under its weight.

Dani wasn't grieving for Rachel the same way Kurt and Santana were – she knew that. She simply hadn't known Rachel for long enough to _really_ feel a loss, so instead Dani was left struggling to cope with simple shock. She was more terrified of what Rachel's death meant in the grand scheme – that by attempting to make it across a distance as great as this, in the midst of what could only be described as a total catastrophe, they were risking far more than they had originally realized. For the first time, they understood that their lives were just as easily lost as anything else.

The truss bridge into Easton creaked slightly in the breeze as they crossed, watching the Delaware River surge along beneath their feet. A couple of kingfishers hunted along the riverbank, darting into the water and popping out again a moment later with tiny fish in their beaks. The trees lining the shore rustled as a strong wind rushed past, branches dipping and leaves fluttering. Dani reached up to pull her hair into a bun and keep it from blowing in front of her face, watching the kingfishers dive as she followed behind Kurt and Santana. Her stomach clenched as a hunger pain shot through her abdomen.

"We should stop and get some water," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind and the gushing river.

Neither Kurt nor Santana argued, following Dani as she veered to the edge of the bridge, where the ground sloped steeply down to the river. At the gravelly shoreline, Dani shrugged off her heavy pack, stretching the kinks from her shoulders before unpacking her empty bottles. Kurt and Santana followed suit, kneeling by the water.

Overhead, the wind whistled through the metal support beams of the bridge, and Dani stared out over the rippling surface of the river as she filled her bottles. On the opposite shore, she could see a pair of dirty stray dogs stop at the edge to drink. They both wore collars. Dani wondered where their owners were. Further upstream from a bend in the river, a small empty dinghy floated along, bobbing this way and that in the water. A torn rope dragged through the water beside it, and Dani watched in silence as it slowly sailed past them, propelled only by the current.

"It's so quiet," she said to no one in particular.

Ignoring her, Kurt abruptly lurched to his feet. "Did you feel that?"

Dani frowned. "Feel what?"

Before he could respond, the ground shook beneath Dani's feet, and she nearly lost her balance. The water trembled, splashing against the pebbles lining the bank, small waves lapping at Dani's shoes. A great gust of wind rushed past them. Across the river, the dogs yelped and bolted, disappearing over the bank with their tails tucked between their legs.

"What…" Santana started, but whatever she was going to say died in her throat as she looked past Dani, her eyes growing wide as dinner plates.

Dani turned to follow Santana's gaze, and felt her blood run cold.

Around the bend in the river came a towering wave, crashing over the rocks and snapping trees out of the ground along the banks like they were no more than toothpicks. The water swelled well over a hundred feet high, churning dark brown and full of debris as it swallowed everything in its path. The roar of the water was deafening, and it almost sounded like the earth was being ripped apart.

Dani whirled on her toes, leaving her packs and water bottles scattered on the ground, and grabbed Santana's arm. But as she tried to run back up the slope to the road, Santana wouldn't budge, frozen to the spot in terror.

" _We have to go!_ " Dani screamed, barely able to hear her own voice.

Santana didn't even glance at her, only staring at the wave surging toward them.

" _KURT!_ " Dani shrieked, desperate for help, but Kurt also stood petrified and rooted to the ground.

Dani glanced over her shoulder, her heart knocking hard and fast against her ribs. There was no time; the wave would reach them in seconds. She pulled on Santana's arm again, and Santana still refused to move. " _COME ON!_ "

At last, the adrenaline coursing through Dani's veins kicked in, and as the wave loomed closer and closer, Dani let go of Santana's arm. And she ran.

She didn't see Santana and Kurt before the wave consumed them, but somewhere amidst the roaring and crashing of the water, she heard them scream. The sound was brief, almost immediately choked off, but Dani didn't look back. She scrabbled for footing on the gravel hill, and had barely made it to the top of the slope when she was lifted off her feet and sucked underwater. The air was ripped from her lungs, and everything went dark.

Dani's body jerked her awake, her eyes snapping open in the pitch black, and for several seconds she had no idea where she was. She lay still, breathing hard and trying to gather her wits, staring up at the shadowed ceiling overhead.

Ceiling. Right. She was indoors.

After making it across the bridge into Easton, the three of them had ducked into an empty Italian bistro in the middle of town to camp inside for the night. The kitchen had been empty, but the windows and doors were intact – a welcome piece of security, since outside the rain was coming down in heavy torrents. The rain battered the windowpanes in a chaotic staccato, and occasionally a flash of lightning somewhere out in the night illuminated the glass.

Dani sat up from her makeshift bed on the floor – really just a blanket and a balled-up sweatshirt for a pillow – and leaned back against the wall. Her heart was still racing from her nightmare. She glanced over to where Kurt was sleeping near the opposite wall to reassure herself that she wasn't alone. Santana, however, wasn't sleeping at all and instead was sitting at one of the small dining tables by the front window, watching the rain in silence.

Dani shivered, goosebumps rolling over her skin in ripples. She shook out the sweatshirt she'd been using as a pillow, pulled it tightly around her torso, and stood up to go join Santana at the table.

"Can't sleep?" she said softly.

Santana shook her head, resting her chin in her hand.

"Same here."

Santana was quiet for a long time, her eyes following the streams of water coursing down the glass. "Do you think we did the right thing?" she asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.

"When?"

"Leaving Rachel the way we did."

Dani's chest ached. "What else could we have done?"

"I don't know." Santana swiped the cuff of her sleeve over her eyes. "I'm so _tired_."

"You want to go back to sleep?"

Santana shook her head. "That's not what I meant."

Dani chewed on the insides of her cheeks, feeling useless. Lightning flashed outside, followed a moment later by a low, far-off rumble of thunder. The storm was already passing.

"Do you think we should have stayed in New York?" she asked, partly because she really wanted to know what Santana thought, and partly because Dani had been asking herself the same question multiple times a day ever since they reached New Jersey and was just desperate for an answer.

Santana sighed, a drawn-out and unsteady exhale. "I don't know," she repeated. "I have no idea."

"I don't either."

Santana pulled her hands through her hair, brushing it back out of her eyes in exhaustion. "Dani, why did you come with us?"

Dani blinked, taken aback by the question. She suddenly realized that Santana had never officially invited her to come along, and it wasn't as though Dani was from Ohio anyway – she'd never even been there. Was it possible that Santana didn't want her along?

She fiddled nervously with her watch. "I-I, um…"

"You could have gone to Tennessee," Santana said. "Found your family."

Dani swallowed. "Santana, they disowned me. If I made it to Tennessee, I still wouldn't have a home to go to. They wouldn't want to see me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

Santana went quiet for another minute, picking anxiously at her fingernails. "For what it's worth," she said at last, "I'm glad you came."

Relief flooded through Dani's veins so quickly she nearly cried. "M-me too," she stammered. Santana's face was barely visible in the dark, but Dani could see a pained smile cross her features. Whether Santana was glad for Dani's company because they were girlfriends (they hadn't been together long enough to say it was definitively _love_ ) or just because Santana didn't want to be left alone with Kurt, Dani didn't know. She supposed, in the end, it didn't really matter.

* * *

_DAY 22_

Puck sat on the edge of the deck attached to June and Carter's house, the heels of his boots resting on the hard-packed dirt. He squinted into the sun, watching Mercedes assisting Carter with giving a large cream-colored horse a brush-down. Puck rubbed his palm over the back of his neck; his hand came away sticky with dust and sweat.

"Here."

Puck twisted to glance over his shoulder. June had emerged from the house and was holding a glass of water out to him. She held a second glass in her other hand.

"You need to stay hydrated," she said.

"Thanks." He accepted the drink and took a long gulp as June sat on the deck's edge next to him. The water was warm, but nevertheless was welcome on his dry throat.

"Wish we had some ice," June mused, almost to herself. She set her cup on the deck beside her and turned toward him. "Come on, let me see your arm."

Puck shifted to allow her better access to his bandaged arm. She carefully unwound the gauze, leaning closer to inspect the scabbed-over crescent knitted into Puck's skin.

"Does it still hurt?" she asked, prodding gently at it with the tip of her finger.

Puck shook his head. "Not much. At least, not compared to earlier."

"That's good," she said. She balled up the gauze in her fist. "I think you can do away with this. You'll have to put on some antibiotic cream later, though."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Puck asked, scratching at the scab.

"People get injured a lot on ranches. You learn what you need to when you need to." June shrugged. "And by the way?" she added. "The next time you get bit by a Gila, don't kill it. Just wedge a stick between its teeth to get it off you."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I'll keep that in mind." Puck took another drink, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. "Where do you guys get your water?" he inquired, peering toward the rocky ridge in the distance that concealed the Colorado River from view. "That's a pretty long way to carry buckets."

June shook her head. "We're close enough to the river to have a well," she explained. "It's all groundwater. We did have to restructure the pump to be hand-operated after the blackout, though, and we take the cows and horses to the river at least once a day. Can't pump enough water for the whole herd."

Far overhead, a hawk screeched, its call echoing out over the sand flats. A gust of wind kicked up a billow of dust, eddying across the yard between the house and the corral. Over the ridge by the river, a wall of dark clouds was gathering, edging across the sky in their direction.

"Storm's coming," June observed.

"Did you do a rain dance?" Puck joked.

June's expression dropped in a fraction of a second, and for a moment Puck thought she was going to slap him. "That was _very_ rude," she said.

Her tone was perfectly steady, and suddenly Puck felt like he was two inches tall. Embarrassment crept up his spine and his face flushed. "…S-Sorry," he stumbled.

June didn't say whether or not she accepted the apology, instead staring back toward the cloudbank. "Come on," she said after a minute. "We should set up some barrels to collect the rain. It's always good to have extra water."

Puck nodded, quickly standing to follow her. After a couple days of taking it easy and letting his arm heal, he was itching to do something useful. He helped June carry empty feed bins from the barn out into the open patch of sand beside the house, relishing in the feeling of getting to use his muscles again. As they worked, the wind picked up, tugging at their clothes and blowing dust across the yard.

"June!" called Carter, approaching them from the horse paddock. "Honey, we got to get the cows over to the river and back before the storm hits. Otherwise they're without water until tomorrow."

June shielded her eyes against the sun, watching the clouds for a moment. "Yeah, that's coming on faster than I thought," she agreed. "Okay, but we've got to go quick as we can. Puck, you think you and Mercedes can help with this?"

Puck shrugged. "Sure. What do you want us to do?"

"Get your horse saddled up," June directed. "Mercedes can ride one of ours. After that, all you have to do is follow up behind the herd."

"Sounds easy enough."

"We've only got about three hours before the storm hits in earnest," Carter said. "Let's go."

* * *

The air in Lima was unnervingly still as Blaine and Artie crossed town, following the familiar route to Yoakam Road on their daily supply run to the abandoned truck. They were now well stocked at home and didn't exactly _need_ to be making a run today, but the idea that someone else might find the truck and figure out how to get it open made Blaine anxious, and so now the runs were more for the purpose of hoarding than anything else. The town was oddly quiet today – aside from the occasional squawk from a crow, not even the birds were singing, and the hairs on Blaine's arms stood on end. Artie was silent as he rolled along beside Blaine, perhaps because the eerie stillness was unsettling him just as much.

Blaine had the odd sensation that if they tried to carry on a conversation, somehow it would give away their location, and the gangs and thieves and thugs that spent their time ransacking and stealing would suddenly pour out of any number of hiding spots. He and Artie would be surrounded, and their hoarded provisions – including the keys to the Target truck – would be ripped from their grasp and they would be shot and left to rot in the middle of the street.

But he couldn't think about that.

Blaine hadn't mentioned to Artie that he had stopped at Sam's house, with its collapsed roof and the charred corpse lying out in the open on the front porch. Partly because Blaine didn't want to see Artie's reaction to the probability that Sam was dead, but mostly because Blaine didn't feel capable of even acknowledging it himself. The list of things he avoided thinking about every day was growing longer and longer.

A small wave of relief hit him as they rounded the bend onto Yoakam Road and found the truck still intact, still sealed up tightly. Blaine quickly climbed up onto the foothold at the back of the truck, fishing the keys out of his pocket to unlock the doors. Over the past several days, they had barely made a dent in the truck's contents.

"So what are you thinking?" Blaine asked. "Soup today? Cereal?"

Artie shrugged. "Whatever we can carry the most of, I guess."

"Cereal it is." Blaine hoisted himself into the trailer, yanking down large cardboard boxes labeled with Cheerios and Kellogg's Corn Flakes and tossing them down to Artie.

Artie set about ripping the boxes open and tossing the cardboard aside, taking only the sealed plastic bags and shoving them into their packs. They could carry far more without the bulky rectangular packaging. Blaine pulled out a box of condensed milk once they had filled the packs, and leaped down from the trailer, quickly locking the doors behind him.

Scooping up the piles of cardboard in his arms, Blaine carried them off the street and into the wooded patch bordering the pavement, tossing the heap onto the carpet of ferns and out of sight from the street. It was a practiced action – they had quickly realized that leaving empty boxes littering the pavement around the truck would look suspicious – and Blaine realized that the process of raiding the truck was becoming strangely well-rehearsed.

"Okay," he said, returning to the pavement and hefting the box of condensed milk off the truck's tailgate. "Let's go."

Artie didn't move immediately, instead staring up at the sky. "Blaine," he said softly. He pointed toward the tree line.

Blaine followed his gaze, the pit of his stomach going cold. A plume of black smoke was rising into the air from several blocks away. It hadn't been there a few minutes ago – whatever was burning, it had only just caught fire.

"We should go," he urged, taking a step back in the direction of the main road.

Artie didn't argue, turning his wheelchair to follow. But as they headed away from Yoakam Road, he kept glancing back over his shoulder at the smoke. Blaine, on the other hand, made a conscious effort not to look back.

"Hey, Blaine?" Artie eventually said when the smoke was finally out of view. They were still a twenty-minute walk from home. "Shouldn't we, you know, check on some people?"

Blaine swallowed, not wanting to have this discussion.

"I mean…" Artie continued. "We haven't seen _anyone_ from school, and I really want to know if they're okay. We – we could even bring them some food; we have more than enough."

Logically, Blaine knew Artie was right. And it wasn't as though Blaine hadn't thought about it – he'd wondered almost constantly if the people he knew in Lima and elsewhere were surviving well or starving or even _alive_. But a big part of him didn't want to know, and ever since he'd been to Sam's house, Blaine wasn't sure anymore if he could even handle knowing.

Artie seemed frustrated with Blaine's hesitance. "Blaine, don't you think that you should at least check on Kurt's parents?" he pushed. "If you were in New York and he was here, wouldn't you want him to make sure your family was okay?"

Blaine swallowed, feeling like a knife had been jammed up underneath his ribs.

"We have to do _something_ ," Artie insisted. "If they're safe, I want to know. If they're starving, I want to help. If they're lying dead on a street somewhere, then I want to bury them. We can't just—"

"I can't, Artie!" Blaine snapped. Artie flinched, and Blaine immediately felt guilty. He clamped his mouth shut, his gut twisting as horrible images flashed across his mind – of the corpse that might have been Sam, of Mr. Schue being picked at by crows, of Cooper lying crushed with blood trickling from his mouth.

Artie's eyebrows pulled together. "So you're just going to leave them, is that it?"

Blaine finally stopped in his tracks, making Artie's chair halt next to him. "I have to believe that they're all okay," he forced out, his heart beating much too loudly against his ribs. "All right? I have to. But as soon as we go look for them, and we actually find them, then that won't be true anymore. And I can't—" He shook his head, blinking back tears. "I can't deal with that."

Artie stared at him for several seconds in silence, his expression blank, as though he had no idea what to make of Blaine's confession. "Blaine, what you just said… it's the exact same thing as believing they're all dead."

Blaine let out a slow, shuddering breath, trying to slow his roaring heartbeat.

Artie sighed, pushing his dirty hair back from his forehead. "You do what you want," he said, reaching down to grip his wheels and push forward again. "Tomorrow, I'm going on my own."

* * *

Though the distance between the ranch and the Colorado River was just barely over a mile and would have normally only taken twenty minutes to cross on horseback, it was much more difficult to keep up the pace while managing a herd of cattle. Not to mention the fact that Puck was suddenly being made keenly aware of how much he really _didn't_ know how to ride a horse. He found himself repeatedly tugging on Mr. T's reins whenever she would try to speed up and get ahead of the herd, and then nudging her to speed up when she dropped too far behind. He couldn't quite pinpoint the correct pace. It had never been an issue before, when it was just Mr. T he had to worry about and she was only going as fast as they could walk.

At the very least, Puck felt a little bit better seeing that Mercedes was having just as much trouble as he was, if not more. She also had the disadvantage of being completely unfamiliar with the animal she was riding – a large cream-colored gelding with a white mane that seemed intent on stopping every few hundred yards to munch on the shrubs poking out of the sand. On top of that, he could hear her muttering constantly about how much she disliked horses and how she was never going to ride one again as long as she lived.

Puck couldn't help but snort at that. Though Mercedes had never once complained about Mr. T, she had never once struck him as a fan of animals of any kind.

Up ahead of the trudging herd, June and Carter flanked the mass of lowing cattle, expertly guiding them with a series of _hey-heys_ and loud _yups_ and the occasional slap of a prod. Luckily, the herd wasn't massive – just under eighty or so if Puck was any good at estimating – and Carter and June could have easily managed the run on their own if they weren't so pressed for time.

Overhead, the sky was growing dark despite it being barely noon, the rainclouds sinking low and heavy. The first rumble of thunder rolled across the desert just as they began to climb the rocky ridge, a couple of sparse but fat raindrops pattering the well-packed earth underfoot.

"I'm going to be so pissed off if we get hit by lightning," Puck called to Mercedes, raising his voice to be heard over the constant bellowing of the cows.

"I doubt we'd live long enough to complain," she retorted.

"That's comforting."

Mercedes laughed at him, but was quickly distracted by her horse again halting to lean down and grab a mouthful of shrub. She swore loudly.

At last, the herd rounded the top of the ridge, beginning the short descent from the rocky path to the water. Puck's first thought was that the river was much, much smaller than he'd anticipated. He'd been expecting a staggeringly large waterway with heavy currents and lush green banks; instead, the Colorado (at least at this particular location) was barely three hundred feet across, with a steady but calm flow of water and a muddy brown shoreline on both sides.

Still, he couldn't say he was disappointed. It was the first body of water he'd seen since leaving the west coast, and after weeks of walking through nothing but desert he was overjoyed. As the cattle slowly spread out along the water's edge to drink, Puck nudged Mr. T to a trot and circled around the herd, then promptly dismounted and without any hesitation, ran straight into the water. It was cool and shallow, and after a few steps Puck dove in headfirst.

"Puck, what the hell are you doing?!" Mercedes exclaimed with a laugh when he resurfaced seconds later.

Puck might have made some kind of witty retort if he hadn't been enjoying the feel of the water so much; as it was, he only let out a satisfied sigh. "Mercedes, you've _got_ to come in here," he urged, floating on his back. He didn't even care that his shoes were flooded. He could feel weeks' worth of travel grime and dust and caked dirt already being washed away.

"Hey!" Carter barked, trotting up on his horse. "We don't have time for a swim, Puck, let's go. Storm's gonna start any minute now."

Puck couldn't help feeling disappointed, but he shook the water from his hair and waded back out of the river, wringing out the hem of his shirt.

"Makes you feel any better, we're all gonna be soaked anyway by the time we get back," Carter said as Puck grabbed Mr. T's reins. "It's gonna be quite the downpour."

As if on cue, the sky flashed with lightning.

Mercedes shrieked, clapping her hand over her mouth. Her eyes went wide. "Did… did you see that?"

A peal of thunder rolled across the hills, reverberating through Puck's chest. He turned his head to watch the clouds. "…See what?"

Mercedes was still staring at the sky. "Th-the lightning."

Puck squinted into the rain, drops pattering the ground more rapidly now. "What about it?" he asked.

"Just wait, wait…"

Puck frowned, watching the dark clouds. Carter was right – it was going to be one hell of a storm. The air around them was thrumming with the pressure.

A minute passed, and the sky once again flashed with lightning. Puck immediately jumped back, bumping into Mr. T.

"What the _hell?_ " he cried.

"You see?"

"That – that's not normal."

Carter didn't seemed all that startled, and instead of crying out in shock or alarm, asked, "Have you two not seen this before?"

Puck gaped at him. "You mean this has happened before?!"

Carter nodded. "Ever since the blackout. We've had a couple storms a week 'cause it's the rainy season, and they've all looked like this. I got no idea why."

Puck turned his attention back to the clouds, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. Every nerve cell in his body was screaming that he should run, find shelter, _hide_ , but he remained frozen where he was. There was nowhere to _go_.

A third time, the sky flashed, and a bright bolt of lightning darted down out of the clouds to the east. And then, as though the sky couldn't quite let it go, the bolt curved upwards and looped back into the clouds before disappearing. It never once touched the ground.

The accompanying peal of thunder rolled overhead quicker than before. The storm was growing closer.

"Come on," Carter finally said. "We got work to do. Let's get the cows watered and get 'em back."

Puck swallowed, his limbs feeling unsteady, but he followed Carter's direction and climbed back into Mr. T's saddle. He exchanged a silent look with Mercedes, who seemed just as uneasy as he was. Her knuckles were almost white around her horse's reins.

They spent a few more minutes at the riverside letting the cows drink, and then June and Carter began prodding the herd back up the ridge slope. The wind had picked up again, whipping at Mercedes' tied-back hair and making Puck shiver in his damp clothes. Even though he did try to concentrate on watching the herd and making sure none of the cows wandered, Puck couldn't stop himself from continuously glancing up at the sky.

As they pushed the cattle back up and over the ridge, and then slowly made their way westward across the sand flats, the sky darkened from grey to almost violet. The rain came down in heavy sheets blown by the wind, drenching them all to the bone and turning the sand to mud. Thunder made the earth shudder every few seconds.

And again and again and again, the lightning refused to strike the ground.

Puck followed behind the herd for the mile-long journey back to the ranch with his heart in his throat. He was unable to escape the foreboding idea that the world was coming to an end.

* * *

Night swept quickly over Lima, plunging the town into a darkness that was eerily still and unyielding. It was a perfectly clear night without even a breath of wind to rattle the windowpanes. Blaine, his parents, Artie, and Caitlin were gathered around the dining table eating dinner – a miscellaneous meal consisting of corn flakes, ramen, refried beans, and canned ham. This was the only lit room, with several candles burning on the table and casting flickering shadows up the walls. There were only a couple inches of wax left on each candlestick, and Blaine made a mental note to scour the down for more on his next supply run tomorrow.

Blaine ate in silence, barely tasting his food and not really putting any effort into joining the others' conversation. It was mostly small talk anyways; they didn't need him to pitch in. Not to mention that Artie had barely spoken to him all afternoon.

The back of Blaine's neck prickled uncomfortably as he sensed someone staring at him, and he noticed his mother watching him from across the table. She averted her eyes when he raised his head, but not in time for him to miss the concerned look on her face. Blaine felt a rock work its way into his throat; he tried to swallow it, but it seemed stuck. He knew his father had told her about their visit to Sam's house, but she hadn't spoken to Blaine about it yet.

Not that she hadn't tried. He just hadn't given her the chance.

He didn't _want_ to give her the chance.

"We need more water," Tim said, pouring the last contents of the pitcher into his glass.

"There's still some in the barrel outside." Blaine immediately moved to grab the pitcher, eager to get away from the table even if just for a minute.

Tim waved him off. "I'll go; I'm done eating anyways." He took the pitcher from the table and stood. "Be right back."

"Well," Gina said as Tim headed out to the front door. "Caitlin and I got a lot done in the garden today. Planted a lot of veggies."

Artie smiled at his little sister. "Yeah? Did you have fun?"

Caitlin shrugged, but smiled very slightly. Blaine could see that she wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of feeling safe again. (He could relate.)

"You were very helpful," Gina insisted. "Pretty soon you're going to be a better gardener than me."

Artie gave Caitlin a nudge with his elbow. "Maybe tomorrow you can show me what you did."

Caitlin nodded, seeming pleased. "Okay."

Gina changed the subject then, much to Blaine's chagrin. "You know, Blaine, we're pretty fully stocked for now. You don't need to make a truck run tomorrow; you could take the day off."

Blaine felt his stomach twist, the refried beans and canned ham sitting in his gut like a fistful of mud. He couldn't quite stand the thought of standing still, with nothing to distract him for an entire day. "…Yeah, maybe," he forced out.

Gina frowned at him for a moment, looking more worried than anything else, and it was uncomfortably quiet. Blaine knew she was trying to figure out what to say to him, and he braced himself for some awkwardly phrased expression of sympathy or comfort, or possibly a gentle offer to talk.

Before she could say anything, however, the silence was ripped in half. Two gunshots blasted in quick succession from somewhere outside the front of the house, and everyone at the table recoiled.

Barely a second later, they heard the water pitcher shatter on the porch.

Gina lurched to her feet, her eyes wide, her shoulders rigid. Her gaze was fixed in the direction of the front door. "Boys, take Caitlin and go in the basement," she ordered.

Neither Blaine nor Artie moved, both frozen stiff.

"Go!" Gina barked. " _Now!_ "

In unison, the two of them finally tore into action. Blaine grabbed Caitlin's upper arm and quickly steered her toward the basement door in the hall. Artie followed, accidentally catching his left wheel on the table leg in his haste. Already, they could hear several pairs of feet pounding up the steps to the front porch.

Blaine flung the basement door open, pushing Caitlin as roughly as he dared down into the stairwell, then turning to help Artie. Artie already knew what had to be done; his wheelchair couldn't go downstairs. Blaine hoisted him onto his back, letting Artie cling to his shoulders as he rushed to make it down the first few steps.

Four stairs down, Blaine twisted slightly to make sure Gina was behind them, but he turned just in time to see her slam the door shut after him. " _Mom!_ " he cried. They were plummeted into darkness, broken only by the soft glow of the candlelight from the dining room shining through the crack beneath the door.

There was a _crash_ as the front door burst open.

Blaine hunched on the stairs with his blood running icy cold, feeling Artie's rapid heartbeat against his back and Caitlin's shuddering breath on his arm.

Another three sudden gunshots made them flinch, and there was a dull _thud_ as Gina fell heavily in front of the door. The thin slit of light vanished. Almost immediately, Blaine could smell the blood seeping through the crack.

He couldn't breathe.

Footsteps passed through the hallway to the kitchen, the dining room, the living room. Spreading out. Searching the house. Blaine couldn't tell how many there were.

"Jesus, this is a good find," a man's voice said. "They've got a lot of stuff in here."

Blaine could hear the kitchen cupboards opening and closing, opening and closing. He bit on his tongue until it bled.

"They got Lucky Charms!" exclaimed another voice. "Hell yeah!"

"Hey, someone check the basement."

Automatically, Blaine heaved himself back up, his calves screaming with the weight of both himself and Artie. He bumped Caitlin, forcing her to move down the stairs and further into the pitch black, and staggered down the steps to the cement floor. He could already hear someone dragging his mother's body out of the way.

"Caitlin, stay with us," Artie whispered, practically choking Blaine with his grip (or was Blaine's throat closing up without Artie's help?).

Blaine struggled not to collapse under Artie's weight as he pushed into the corner of the cellar, only half-hidden from the stairwell by a stack of old cardboard boxes. Crouching down, he felt Artie reach out and grope for Caitlin in the dark, grabbing her by her sleeve and pulling her close.

The door opened, and immediately the wavering light of a torch shone down into the dark. Footsteps, lighter than those upstairs, descended the steps. The intruder came into view, and suddenly Blaine's heart screeched to a complete halt. Artie let out a small, almost inaudible gasp.

It was Kitty.

She was in jeans and a sweatshirt, her too-oily hair pulled back in a limp ponytail that was really only a poor imitation of her old cheerleader's style. There was a nasty cut on the side of her jaw. Blaine almost didn't recognize her.

Holding the torch above her head to better see the room, she glanced around the basement until her eyes landed on the three of them, and she froze. Her eyes went wide.

No one spoke. No one moved.

"You find anything down there?" shouted someone from upstairs.

Kitty's eyes were suddenly glassy, and Blaine couldn't be sure in the torchlight but she might have been on the verge of tears. She swallowed, not looking away from them for even a second as she called back.

"N-No, there's nothing."

"Well, come on, we need help with all the crap up here."

Kitty didn't move immediately. "Is there a back door?" she whispered, her voice shaking.

Blaine's heart was leaping hurdles in his chest, banging much too hard against his ribs. His gaze jumped to the right, where set into the far wall was a door leading out to the sloping back yard.

Kitty pressed her lips together momentarily. "They're going to burn the house," she hissed. " _Run_."

And with that, she whirled on her toes and dashed back up the stairs to rejoin her companions, taking the light of the torch with her.

Blaine's chest heaved, the oxygen tingling in his fingertips.

"Blaine," Artie snapped, shaking his shoulders. "Blaine, we have to _go_."

At Artie's urging, Blaine blinked and gave his head a shake. He readjusted his grip on Artie's legs, then stood up.

"Caitlin, hold onto me," Artie directed breathlessly.

Going as fast as he could and yet still far, far too slowly, Blaine edged his way through the cellar, navigating the dark based on sheer muscle memory. Upstairs they could hear the constant thudding of footsteps and slamming of cupboard doors as the kitchen was ransacked. At last, Blaine nearly tripped over the concrete step beneath the back door, fumbling for the handle with trembling fingers.

The door fell back on its hinges, and cool air washed over them. Blaine's legs strained to step up and through the doorway, emerging from the house in the shadow of the rear deck. Out here, it was easier to see in the light from the stars and the waning moon. Blaine hastened away from the house, stumbling down the slope toward the woods at the edge of the property.

Out of the corner of his eye, he barely caught sight of Cooper's wooden grave marker nestled in the grass as they rushed by.

At last, Blaine ducked in between the trees, ferns damp with late night dew brushing across his ankles. His knees buckled, and he and Artie crashed into the dirt. Caitlin shrieked. Artie immediately jerked up, begging her to be quiet.

Blaine pushed himself back onto his feet, reaching down to heave Artie across the ground for a few feet to sit at the base of the nearest tree trunk. Caitlin instantly dove into Artie's arms, crying and shaking like a leaf.

Blaine crept forward a few yards, keeping low despite the fact that logically, he knew nobody would be able to see him from the house. He stared up the hill at his home, the windows lit now only by torchlight. The minutes dragged on, time passing unjustly slowly now that there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait. Crickets chirped incessantly all around him.

Eventually, the light faded from the windowpanes, and there was a blissful moment of quiet darkness in which Blaine thought maybe – just _maybe_ – Kitty had been wrong and it had been the gang's plan all along to leave the house standing.

And then there was a small flare of orange light somewhere in the living room, and within only _seconds_ – they must have had a can of gasoline – the entire first floor was engulfed. The flames burst through the windows and licked up the walls, eating up to the second floor more gradually until the house was an inferno.

Blaine sat there in the dirt and watched as his home burned, the walls and roof and furniture and everything that made it _his_ reduced to a hundred-foot bonfire. The fire was so bright that Blaine had to squint, and even where he was he could feel wave after wave of dry, foul heat rolling over him.

He shivered, his knuckles digging into the ground.

The fire roared, drowning out the crickets, and the smoke blotted out the stars.

"Blaine," Artie called from behind him.

Blaine ignored him, watching sparks and burning embers float up into the sky. The stench of smoke clogged his mouth and nose, and his breath hitched in his chest.

"Blaine," Artie repeated. "We should go."

A loud _crack-crack-crack_ echoed outwards from the house, and the roof gave way, falling in on itself and taking half the right wall of the house with it.

"Blaine!"

Finally, Blaine tore his gaze away, turning his attention to Artie. Artie clutched Caitlin to his chest and his glasses sat crookedly on his nose, his face streaked with dirt. Caitlin was pressed into him, her limbs pulled inward and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Artie's eyes jumped to the house and then back to Blaine, the reflection of the fire flickering across his glasses. "We can't stay here," he pressed.

Feeling dizzy, Blaine watched the house burn for a few moments longer, then forced himself to turn away. Artie gently nudged Caitlin to her feet. Blaine knelt down and carefully but somewhat awkwardly hauled Artie up onto his back a second time. His knees shook under the weight, but he hefted Artie to the most comfortable position possible and waited for Caitlin to wrap her fingers into the hem of Artie's sweater.

As the _boom_ of the second floor's collapse reverberated down the hill, Blaine, Artie, and Caitlin trudged away from the blaze. The roar of the fire and the blinding orange glow grew fainter, fading into the distance.

Slowly, step by heavy step, the three of them disappeared into the dark.


	16. No More Yellow Brick Roads

_DAY 23_

Artie jerked awake, finding his lids crusted over with grime and his cheek pressed into the dead leaves and dirt covering the ground. For several seconds, confusion clouded his head and he couldn't quite place where he was. The treetops overhead rustled in the breeze. A grey sky. Caitlin was next to him, squeezed into the crook of his arm and shivering slightly, but still asleep. It was cold and damp, and smelled like impending rain. In the back of his mind, he could still taste sour smoke and hear the deafening, echoing _boom_ of Blaine's house caving in. He wondered if the fire was still smoldering, or if there was even anything left of the house at all.

What were they going to do? What _could_ they do? They were left without food, without shelter, without anyone to protect them other than themselves. And, frankly, Artie didn't have a whole lot of faith that any one of them could offer much protection at all. He couldn't even move around now that his chair was burned to a crisp, Caitlin was just a kid, and Blaine… well. Artie's confidence in Blaine was dwindling by the day. Not that he didn't trust Blaine; it was only that Blaine kept withdrawing into himself, going through the motions of survival as though he didn't have a vested interest in it. And that was before the fire. Artie had no idea what to expect now.

At last, Artie forced himself to sit up, carefully working his arm out from under Caitlin's shoulder. She didn't wake up, and for the moment Artie was grateful for that. Sleep was an ignorance he wanted to let her keep for as long as possible.

Blaine, on the other hand, didn't appear to have gotten any sleep during the night whatsoever. He sat a few feet away from Artie, his back against a tree trunk and his elbows resting on his knees. Artie was struck suddenly by how _skinny_ Blaine looked, and he had to ask himself if that was new or it he'd simply not noticed Blaine's cheekbones sticking out further, his eyes sunken. It occurred to Artie that Blaine might have stopped eating properly days ago.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked, his voice coming out hoarse from a night of breathing the damp night air.

Blaine didn't even make eye contact, only responding with a small shake of his head.

"You can't stay up forever," Artie said lamely. The words felt awkward and clumsy, and there was a long, pregnant moment of silence. "I'm really sorry, Blaine."

"For what?" Blaine's voice, his posture, his expression… everything was collapsed, like all the energy had been sucked out of him.

Artie frowned, his stomach turning. "About your mom and dad. And your house."

Blaine only closed his eyes, looking absolutely exhausted, and raked his fingers through his hair.

"It sucks, and none of this is fair, but…" Artie started again, attempting some kind of a pep talk (he hoped, anyway). How was he supposed to respond to this? "I'm with you, okay?"

"Artie, please don't," Blaine stopped him. He hadn't opened his eyes.

Artie's jaw clenched, and he looked away. Not that Blaine would have noticed the expression, he thought bitterly. His chest was tight, his stomach aching. None of them had eaten anything since just before the attack, and that was a problem that had to be solved soon. Artie swallowed the bile in his throat, feeling something like anger bubble in his gut. Maybe it was just hunger, but it certainly _felt_ like rage.

"Blaine, maybe this isn't the best time for you to hear this, but we're sleeping in the freaking woods and I don't have any more room in my head to deal with this," Artie snapped, the words jumping from his mouth faster than he could think them through. "I'm getting really sick of this whole stoic straight-arm thing you're doing, okay? It's not helping anyone, and we have more important things on our plate to worry about and we need to be able to have a real conversation without pausing for you to silently brood."

Blaine had finally opened his eyes again, and was glaring back at him. "Are you seriously telling me I don't have a right to be upset?" It was the first time that morning that Artie had heard any force in Blaine's voice at all.

"Oh, come _on_ , Blaine! You know exactly what I'm saying!" Artie cried, struggling to keep his voice down so he wouldn't wake Caitlin. "Your parents just died and you're grieving and tired and scared and I _get_ that. Scream, cry, punch a tree, I don't care. Do whatever you have to do. But don't you _dare_ let all of that get in the way of us staying alive. We have to find food. We have to find a safe place to stay. We have to find me another chair, because you can't carry me. And _none_ of that is going to happen if you and I aren't communicating."

Blaine didn't speak right away, still glaring at him. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose.

Artie pressed his lips together, bracing for Blaine to yell at him. To be honest, he wasn't so sure getting Blaine to yell was such a bad thing – maybe it would shake him out of whatever stupor he was stuck in.

When Blaine finally opened his mouth, he didn't shout. His voice came out hoarse and thready and shaking. "How long do you expect we can actually survive out here?"

"Blaine," Artie warned. "Stop it."

Blaine didn't listen. "Artie, we're starving, we're exposed, we've got nowhere to go, and our families are _dead_. We've got nothing."

"My family isn't dead!" Artie spat. At that, Caitlin stirred at last, shaken awake by the argument. She sat up, glancing back and forth from Artie to Blaine and back again.

Blaine stared at him. "What?"

Artie let out a huff of air and heaved himself all the way up, dragging his legs so that he could sit against the tree trunk to his back. Caitlin sat with her knees pulled to her chest, not sure of what to do.

"Our brother's in Philadelphia for college, and our parents are in _Belgium_."

Blaine blinked. "Belgium?" he repeated.

"They were on a business trip when the blackout hit," Artie explained with a rock in his throat. "They're not dead."

Blaine's shoulders dropped, and he ran a palm over the back of his head. "Artie, I-I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yeah, well, you never asked," Artie snapped. He knew exactly what Blaine had assumed, and he couldn't say he blamed him for the assumption, but Blaine could have at least _asked_.

They both fell quiet, neither of them having any idea how to move the conversation forward.

"I'm hungry," Caitlin said, sounding as though she was trying to fill the silence more than expecting someone to actually give her something.

Blaine stood and brushed the dirt from the seat of his pants.

"Are you going somewhere?" Artie asked with a frown.

"Like you said," Blaine answered. "We need to get you a new chair."

Artie's eyebrows shot up. "You're going now? Where are you even going to look?"

"St. Rita's."

"Blaine, we passed by St. Rita's days ago and it looked like it had already been raided," Artie said. "It's probably empty."

Blaine nodded. "Yeah, of _drugs_ , most likely. What are the chances a gang broke in and stole all the wheelchairs?" He didn't wait for Artie to answer, instead squinting up at the sky for a moment (as if he could actually see the sun despite the cloud cover). "I think it's a little before noon. I'll be gone for a couple hours, so until I get back, stay away from the road."

"I'm not going anywhere," Artie said flatly, gesturing irritatedly at his legs.

Blaine didn't respond to the jab, instead giving a short nod and striding through the ankle-deep ferns in the direction of the road. The pavement was just visible from Artie's place on the ground, but it wasn't more than a few seconds before Blaine vanished entirely from view.

Once Blaine was gone, it fell terrifyingly quiet. Artie looked up at the thin canopy of leaves, his skin running cold. A small flock of sparrows chittered in the branches somewhere overhead.

Caitlin sat with her legs crossed and ripped a dead leaf to smaller and smaller pieces in her fingers. "I'm hungry," she said again.

Artie sighed, leaning his head against the tree trunk to his back. "Me too."

* * *

Santana was slow to wake, the battering rain and thunder from the previous night still echoing distantly in her head. Every part of her ached from sleeping on the hard tiled floor – her head especially since somehow she had managed to shove away the balled-up sweater she'd been using as a pillow. Despite the pain in her twisted spine, neck, and the back of her head, Santana didn't move. She remained lying on her side and staring at the wall, her eyes tracing the pattern of meanders painted along the foot of the wall as her mind slowly drifted into wakefulness.

Eventually, the realization that she couldn't hear Kurt or Dani – no talking or moving around or even _breathing_ – jerked her upright. A jolt of panic shocked through her when she saw the bistro was empty beside herself, and she quickly lurched to her feet. She spotted Kurt sitting on the front step outside with his back to her, and her shoulders relaxed, her stomach still in knots from anxiety or panic or hunger or some combination thereof.

Scraping her hideously dirty hair off the back of her neck and pulling it up into a messy bun, Santana pushed the front door open. Kurt looked up for a moment, then returned his attention to scanning up and down the street.

"Hey," he said as she sat next to him.

She swallowed a sudden urge to gag – they both _badly_ needed a shower. Santana had thought that after a certain amount of time, her nostrils would eventually just tune out the stink, but as the days of walking and sweating and not bathing multiplied, the smell only got worse.

"What are you looking at?" Santana asked, careful to breathe through her mouth.

Kurt shrugged. "Dani went to see if she could find some stuff."

Santana couldn't quite tell if that was a direct answer and he was watching for Dani to return, or if he didn't even know what he was looking for and he was just avoiding the question.

She rested her elbows on her knees, her stomach cramping in hunger. Kurt didn't notice her staring at him. Santana hadn't looked in a mirror in weeks and was sure she looked awful, but the difference in how Kurt looked compared to before the blackout was nothing short of shocking. He was _bony_. His cheeks and jaw were covered in a coat of dark facial hair that made him look like someone else. The hair on his head was overgrown and unstyled, covering the tips of his ears and thick with dirt and oils. His fingernails were caked underneath. Dark shadows beneath his eyes made them appear sunken and hollow.

Santana swallowed and forced herself to look away.

She turned her gaze upward, watching the sun vanish and re-appear as white fluffy clouds blew past across a patchy blue sky. Her abdomen clenched as a particularly strong hunger pang shot through her.

"There's Dani," said Kurt, breaking the quiet.

Santana spotted Dani a few blocks away down the empty street, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The pack didn't appear any heavier than it had been the previous evening.

"Anything?" Santana asked as Dani finally approached them.

Dani shook her head, her shoulders hanging low. "Everything I did find expired ages ago. More mold than food."

Santana sighed. She couldn't say she was surprised. But… they were out of food completely now. There was _nothing_ left, and if they didn't find anything to eat soon, they wouldn't make it much further than Easton. Every cell in her body was fatigued, and she felt like she could barely lift her arms, let alone walk to Ohio from the far end of Pennsylvania.

She wished Rachel was here, helping to fill the silence.

"We should get going," said Kurt, pulling himself up from the granite step. He turned and went inside without another word to start packing.

Santana didn't move quite yet; instead, she glanced up at the sun again. Now that she thought about it, the sun was much higher than it usually was when they started walking in the mornings. "What time is it?"

Dani peered at her watch. "Almost noon." She shrugged the pack off her shoulder and sat next to Santana. "Did you sleep any better last night?"

"A little bit."

"Your hands are shaking."

Santana looked down. Dani was right – her fingers were trembling. "I'm just hungry."

Dani didn't have an answer to that. She reached over and wrapped her hand around Santana's, leaning into her side and resting her head on her shoulder. Dani's fingertips were freezing cold against Santana's skin.

They sat there for a few minutes, silently watching the clouds pass overhead, the few trees planted along the sidewalks rustle in the breeze, and a couple of squirrels scamper across the road. The sun was warm, but Santana felt frigid inside, as though her blood couldn't reach any deeper than her skin.

Santana's head nodded for a moment before her body jolted her awake again.

"You okay?" asked Dani, squeezing Santana's hand.

"Yeah, I think so." Santana gave her head a shake, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand. Now was not the time to fall asleep – it was already late in the day, and they had to keep going. "Come on, we should pack up and head out."

When Santana stood up, the blood rushed from her head and she swayed on her feet, her vision disappearing into a cloud of black spots. Her ears roared, and she felt Dani's arms grab her shoulders before she could fall. As she rapidly blinked and sucked in a deep, deep breath, the spots cleared from her eyes and the roaring in her ears faded. She steadied herself on her feet.

Dani was still gripping her shoulders. "We have to find something soon," she said solemnly. "We can't keep doing this."

"We don't have any other option," Santana replied, shrugging away from Dani's hold. "It's okay, I'm fine."

Dani didn't argue, but her mouth was set in a grim line as she followed Santana back inside.

Kurt was standing by the booth he'd slept next to, shoving his blanket and a few pieces of clothing into his pack. His hands were shaking too.

Santana knelt on the floor to roll up the tangle of blankets she'd been sleeping on, the back of her head buzzing like her skull was filled with static.

"Are you going to help or what?" Kurt snapped.

Santana paused and looked over her shoulder. Dani was still standing by the door, her arms hugging her torso and her bottom lip clamped between her teeth.

"Guys, we need to stop," she blurted out.

Kurt frowned. "What?"

"We need a break, okay?" Dani continued. "We can camp out here, comb the town for supplies. Rest for a while before getting back on the road."

"We need to go _home_ ," Kurt insisted, shaking his head.

Dani's arms dropped to her sides, her shoulders falling. "Kurt, we didn't even make it five miles yesterday. Over the whole _day_. We weren't even that slow when Rachel was with us."

Kurt's jaw clenched shut and he looked away, like he was angry at Dani for bringing Rachel up. Santana chest hurt and for a split second she wanted to burst into tears.

"We're tired, we've eaten pretty much nothing the last two days, and we're not going to make it home if we keep going like this," Dani persisted.

Kurt bristled at that, and a shadow flickered across his face. His eyes flared. "It's not _your_ home," he spat lowly, speaking through his teeth. "You don't get to make the calls. You're just along for the ride."

"Don't be an asshole," Santana cut in, glaring at him. She sighed, pulling herself shakily to her feet. "She's right. We're exhausted."

Kurt's jaw twitched, his fists tight.

Rather than argue any further, Dani pleaded. "Kurt, let's just stay here for a few days, okay? We'll rest up and get back out there as soon as we can. We all need a break."

"We have to go _home_ ," Kurt repeated, his words thin and unsteady. "I can't just sit here and do nothing!"

"Kurt, we're not going to _make_ it home if we starve to death on the way," Santana countered, raising her voice. "You want to end up dead in a ditch by the side of the road like Rachel did? Be my guest. But I'm staying here with Dani, and if you want to keep on with your freaking death march, then I won't stop you."

"Oh, _screw you_!" Kurt shouted, his voice breaking.

"Kurt…" said Dani gently. "Please. Let's stay _alive_."

Kurt gritted his teeth, his eyes glassy. His breath shuddered out of his chest and his shoulders sunk. He ran a hand over his face. "Fine," he choked out. "Fine."

Santana glanced at Dani, who looked like she was about to cry. "How about you and Kurt go to the river and I'll meet you there in a little bit?"

Dani blinked back a few tears, nodding. "Okay. What are you going to do?"

"I saw a Rite Aid a couple blocks away that I want to check out. If we're going to be here for a day or two, we should at least try to clean ourselves up."

Santana could feel Kurt glaring at her, but she ignored him. He would just have to get over it. Maybe that was callous, but they'd all had to make adjustments in favor of their safety, and Kurt was no different. They couldn't prioritize their feelings anymore.

She headed out the door with one of their empty backpacks hanging from her shoulder, striding quickly along the sidewalk in the direction of the Rite Aid she'd spotted on their way into town. The road was littered with trash, dead leaves, dust, and abandoned cars, and most of the shops she passed had been looted. In all likelihood, the Rite Aid wasn't going to have anything more, but Santana preferred to be thorough. She wasn't going to risk losing a possible resource based on an assumption.

By the time she reached the Rite Aid parking lot six blocks away, her legs nearly felt ready to give out. The sun no longer felt pleasantly warm – instead, it beat down on Santana's neck, brutal and dry and hot. She paused at the edge of the lot to brace an arm against a streetlamp and give herself a few seconds to rest. Dani had been right; if she couldn't make it a few blocks without feeling dizzy and sick, then a rest for a few days was what they needed.

Swallowing, Santana stepped off the curb and walked across the lot to the front entrance. The automatic doors had been smashed, so she stepped through the hollow frame and was careful to not catch her feet on the jagged shards of glass sticking up from it like teeth. (A wave of nausea coursed through her as Rachel's screams echoed distantly in the back of her mind.)

Inside the Rite Aid, Santana found nearly all the shelves empty and a filthy floor. She could hear a few pigeons cooing somewhere toward the back of the store, and a few bird droppings decorated the cash registers. Looters had tracked in dirt and mud, leaving smeared shoe prints across most of the linoleum, and rain falling in through the broken doors over the past several weeks had made the mess worse. Santana wrinkled her nose –though the open entrance had helped to ventilate somewhat, it still stank.

The grocery aisles were entirely devoid of anything useful. The only food left that Santana could immediately spot was a shattered jar of salsa that someone had dropped on the ground, leaving its splattered contents dried and crusted on the floor like a huge scab.

Desperately but without any real expectation of success, Santana knelt on the ground, then lay on her belly to peer beneath the aluminum shelves. Her eyes widened when she saw the shadow of a box that had been somehow kicked underneath. Her stomach grumbled loudly, as if to ask what she was waiting for. She grunted slightly as she wedged her arm into the gap between the shelf and the floor, batting the box clumsily toward herself, and finally yanked it out.

She nearly laughed out loud. It was a box of Frosted Flakes.

Eagerly stuffing the box of cereal into her pack, Santana stood back up and began to wander throughout the store in search of anything else of use. There was no more food, but Santana was able to retrieve a handful of supplies from the other aisles – three boxes of tampons, a single tube of shaving cream, a packet of five razors, and a box of baking soda. Everything else that was left (mostly cosmetics and stationery) was nowhere near essential.

She had just zipped her bag shut when the pigeons sprung away from their roost near the ceiling, flapping and hooting in a frenzy. Santana jumped at the noise. She slung the pack back over her shoulders and turned to leave, only to stop in her tracks when she realized she wasn't the only one in the store.

Two women stood at the door, watching her.

Santana didn't say anything, her heart in her throat. She suddenly felt very, very alone.

"Did you find anything?" said the older woman. She was in her fifties, while the other closer to Santana's age. They looked like a mother and daughter. Both of them were skinny and in need of a bath, and both had the same haunted, starved glint in their eyes that Santana had seen in every single person she'd encountered since the blackout.

Santana shook her head. "No, nothing."

The strangers exchanged a glance, and then the daughter spoke. "I don't believe you."

Santana stepped back. "I don't have anything."

"Give us your bag."

Her hands tightened around the straps, her palms sweating. "No."

The mother's eyes flared, and she stepped forward. "Give us your bag," she repeated.

Santana swallowed. She quickly ran her eyes over the women's figures – they had no weapons, nothing to give them the upper hand besides the fact that there were two of them.

After a split second of indecision, Santana bolted.

* * *

Blaine shivered as he approached the looming hospital, a bead of cold sweat dripping down his neck. His heart thudded hard against his ribs, and he hesitated at the edge of the curb with his pulse roaring in his ears and his stomach turning somersaults in his gut. Every nerve in his body was urging Blaine to turn and walk in the other direction, to leave the hospital behind him and not look back. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and reminded himself that Artie desperately needed a new chair. And at the moment, one could argue that a new wheelchair was more important than finding food and shelter. Blaine couldn't keep carrying Artie, and he couldn't be doing all the work. Mobility was a necessity that none of them – Artie included – could afford to sacrifice.

"Come on, come on," Blaine whispered to himself. "You can do this." He finally stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Emergency Room doors. A hot breeze blew past, causing dust and leaves and old trash to eddy around his feet.

The sliding doors stood only half closed – one door sat crooked on its bearings, the glass cracked around two massive bullet holes. Blaine swallowed and shouldered his way through the gap, only to cough and clap his hand over his mouth and nose as he was slammed with an overwhelming stench of decay. He froze in his tracks, his lungs halting entirely as he took in the gruesome scene in front of him. The bullet holes in the door had been only the beginning. Inside, holes peppered the walls, the nurse's station counter, the doors leading to other rooms and hallways. And there were bodies. A man and a woman in scrubs by the door to the stairwell. A woman in a white coat in front of the nurse's station. Another nurse to Blaine's right, near the exam rooms. All of them lay in pools of dried blood, staining their clothes and the floor underneath dark brown. The buzzing of flies made Blaine sick.

Blaine didn't know how long they had been dead, but the air was rancid and stinking, and he gagged as he struggled to breathe. He froze again as he noticed one final detail – a line of bloody footprints leading from the nurse's station straight towards him, disappearing out the door. The prints were old and dried, ghostly traces of someone left unnamed. Whatever had happened here, someone had survived and made it out.

He tried not to think too hard about the fact that even if they'd survived the massacre here, they could have easily been killed elsewhere between then and now. He wasn't sure if it even mattered anymore when or where or how a person died.

Swallowing the bile in his throat, Blaine clenched his teeth and tore his gaze away from the corpses, searching the room for any abandoned wheelchairs. His heart sank – not a single one was in sight. No. There _had_ to be at least one or two chairs left, maybe on the other floors. Blaine carefully avoided the bloody footprints on the floor and edged toward a large sign on the far wall listing the various departments. He kept his eyes forward and refused to look at the bodies on the ground again.

Blaine waved a couple of flies away from his face as he read the department directory, trying to decide which one was the most likely to have several wheelchairs on hand. He settled on _Surgical Center – 2_ _nd_ _Floor_.

He had to step over the nurses' corpses to get to the stairwell.

On the second floor, the smell was even worse. A total lack of open windows and doors had trapped the stench inside for weeks, and Blaine guessed that the bodies on this floor had died in the blackout itself – they had to have been here for longer than the dead doctors and nurses in the lobby. Blaine pulled the collar of his t-shirt up over his nose, trying not to think about it too hard.

Next to the nurses' station close to the elevator, Blaine found a line of three folded wheelchairs kept well out of the way against the wall. He quickly unfolded one, rolled it back and forth a few feet to test it, then collapsed it again and hurried back to the stairs. He was acutely eager to get out of the hospital and out of the smell. It only took him a few minutes to heft the wheelchair down the flight of stairs to the lobby, shoulder his way through the door, and step back over the bodies blocking his path.

By the time he reached the main entrance, Blaine was almost running. At this point, the hospital was really nothing more than a necropolis, and Blaine was all too happy to leave it behind.

Outside, Blaine drew a huge gasp of fresh air as though he'd just barely escaped drowning. The air – _clean_ air – filled his lungs and made the back of his head buzz with oxygen. He stood there for a moment to catch his breath before setting the wheelchair on the pavement and unfolding it again.

He turned to look one last time at the hospital entrance, and noticed for the first time that someone had spray-painted a wooden sign and nailed it to the bench closest to the door.

_HOSPITAL OPEN_

_WE CAN HELP_

* * *

Santana's chest heaved, adrenaline coursing through her veins with such intensity that she couldn't feel her arms and legs. Her backpack bounced back and forth on her shoulders as her feet pounded the pavement. Her head was swimming, her ears roaring, and she couldn't hear anything besides her own gasps for breath. Her throat _burned_.

In a blind panic, Santana made turn after turn, dashing down street after unfamiliar street. She paid no attention to which direction she was heading – the only thing driving her was the overwhelming urge to get _AWAY_ from the strangers on her heels. A quick glance over her shoulder showed they were still behind her, running just as fast and showing no signs of slowing.

Santana grabbed the pole of an approaching streetlamp, using it to swing her weight ninety degrees before fleeing down yet another street. She hadn't run this fast since the hyena attack in New York. (This was scarier.)

She was exhausted.

They had to give up soon, didn't they?

One of the women shouted something at her, but with her pulse and the wind drumming in her ears, she couldn't hear what they said. She didn't stop to ask for clarification.

Why did she feel like there were lead weights hanging from her ankles?

She was breathing so fast through her teeth that her _gums_ hurt.

She couldn't keep this up.

With the air tearing raggedly through her lungs on each inhale, Santana darted into the first open door she could spot – a small coffee shop. She didn't pause even for half a second, sprinting past the tables, past the counter, through the door to the back storage room and finally bursting out of the emergency exit. She found herself in an alley and quickly made a break for the street, turning the corner just as she heard her pursuers crash through the door after her.

Her legs were going to give out.

Every cell in her body was screaming at her to stop, to give up, to collapse on the pavement. The oxygen was barely reaching her brain, and with no food in her stomach she could feel her muscles burning instead. Her skin felt like it was about to rupture.

She didn't stop.

She ducked into another doorway, this time a hardware store. She ran past the cash register and down an aisle of nails stacked on shelves ten feet high, her eyes desperately searching for another exit.

Wait.

Nearly everything in this store was either heavy, blunt, or sharp.

Santana skidded to a stop, her legs and knees and arms shaking almost uncontrollably, and she grabbed the first object within reach – a long-handled ten-pound sledgehammer. She heard the front doors slam open, two pairs of sneakers squeaking on the floor.

Santana could barely breathe, her ribs aching from the strain of opening and closing so quickly and her blood boiling. With trembling arms, she heaved the sledgehammer as high as she could, bracing herself as the strangers' stomping feet drew closer.

She clenched her teeth, halted her breath, and swung with every last ounce of strength in her body.

She felt the hammer make contact, felt the _crunch_ of multiple splintered bones and heard a bloodcurdling scream as one of the women crumpled to the ground. The force of the swing combined with the weight of the hammer nearly made Santana topple to the floor as well, but she managed to catch herself on the shelf by her side. The woman on the ground was still screaming.

" _Mom!_ " shouted the daughter, dropping to her knees. Her mother was sobbing in agony, clutching her shoulder with her uninjured arm.

Santana's blow had struck the woman's right shoulder, collarbone, and upper arm, shattering every bone beneath it.

The daughter looked up at Santana with an expression that could only be described as _terror_.

Santana gritted her teeth. "Leave me alone!" she snarled. Her throat had been burned so badly during her run that it hurt to speak.

The mother was still sobbing, her daughter frozen to the spot.

" _LEAVE ME ALONE!_ " Santana screamed. She mustered enough willpower to stand upright, lifting the hammer slightly to show she wasn't afraid to swing it again (even if she was).

Immediately, the daughter scrambled to help her mother to her feet. The older woman could barely stand, clinging to her daughter with her good arm as they hobbled out of the hardware store. Santana stood there, breath heaving and body shaking, until the door banged shut behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Santana retched. There was nothing in her stomach to throw up, and so the acid in her throat sent shocks of pain stabbing through her abdomen.

Absolute and total exhaustion took over then, her body surrendering. She lost consciousness before she hit the floor.

* * *

"How is it?"

Artie nodded, flipping the chair's brakes a couple times to test them. "Much better than sitting in the dirt," he said. "Thanks."

Blaine could see that the wheelchair wasn't perfect – it was a little too wide for Artie to push it comfortably and was clearly designed for hospital use, where there were plenty of nurses to do the legwork for their patients. But it seemed manageable, and Artie was already wheeling himself clumsily toward the road.

"Whoa, hold on," Blaine interjected quickly, grabbing the handlebars of the new chair. "Might be easier to get you to the pavement first."

Artie let go of the wheels and allowed Blaine to push him across the thick carpet of dirt and dead leaves, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Caitlin was following.

"I miss your light-up wheels," Caitlin remarked.

Artie smiled. "Yeah, me too," he agreed. "Here's hoping I can get another chair like that again someday."

Blaine jostled Artie over the lip of the asphalt, then released him. Artie turned in a few practice circles, adjusting to the new equipment.

"So, what's the plan here?" Blaine asked, crossing his arms. "What next?"

"Food," Artie replied immediately. "No point trying to find someplace to stay if we starve before we get there."

"Where do you think we should look?"

"What about the truck?" suggested Caitlin. "You said there was still a lot of stuff in it."

Artie shook his head. "The key was back in the house. Even if it didn't melt in the fire, we'd never find it."

"I bet there's a hardware store in town where we could find bolt cutters," Blaine said. "We could get a new lock and key for it too."

"It's pretty late in the day already – do we have time for that?"

Blaine scratched the underside of his jaw in thought. "The truck's pretty close to downtown, but I don't think we do if we want time afterward to find a place for the night."

Caitlin tensed up at that. "I don't want to sleep in the woods again," she insisted, looking pleadingly at her big brother.

"Maybe we should prioritize finding a roof first," Artie said with a sigh. "I hate to say it but if worse comes to worse, we _can_ make it another day without eating. And it's dangerous to be out here all night. We could check on some people from school like I was saying earlier, crash with one of them. They might even have food."

Blaine nodded in agreement, though a cold knot of apprehension settled into his gut. Why did he have the sickening premonition that they would find all the people they knew burned to death and left for the crows?

"Ryder lives closest to here," Artie continued. "We should check his house first."

"All right, let's go."

Blaine had never visited Ryder before, and so Artie led the way, wheeling just ahead and giving the occasional direction until they reached Dunbury Lane. The street was a small cul-de-sac at the end of a road that was little more than a driveway, and like the rest of the town, it was dead quiet. Caitlin wordlessly grabbed Blaine's hand, hugging close to his side as they neared the circle of houses. There was a sudden _bang!_ like a gunshot, making all three of them flinch. Blaine released a shaky breath – the noise had only been the wind causing the unlocked door of the nearest house to slam against its frame. Eerily, the house didn't appear to have been broken into at all – the windows were all intact, there were no signs of fire, no debris left on the front lawn. But it didn't seem to be occupied either.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made Blaine's gaze shift quickly to the house on their left. He turned in time to see the curtain in an upstairs window pull shut, the shadow of a person just vanishing from view.

"Artie," Blaine said softly. "There's still people here."

"I don't think this place has been attacked yet," Artie replied, scanning the houses for signs of damage.

It should have been a relief, but Blaine had to remind himself that the operative word in that statement was _yet_.

"Which one is Ryder's house?" he asked.

Artie slowed to a stop, his shoulders falling. "Crap. It's that one."

Blaine followed Artie's gaze, and felt his heart skip. Ryder's house was smallish and painted robin's egg blue, bearing no signs of any break-ins, and might have seemed safe if it weren't for the huge message spray-painted in massive black letters across the entire front:

_SOPHIE – WE WENT TO ATLANTA_

"Who's Sophie?" was the only thing Blaine could think to say.

"Ryder said he had an older sister," Artie said.

"Why did they leave?" asked Caitlin, squeezing Blaine's hand.

"Maybe they had other family in Atlanta."

Blaine swallowed, his stomach flipping over. He was struck suddenly by the disturbing notion that Ryder and his family would have to choose who to save, being forced to leave someone to fend for themselves. He wondered what he and his parents would have done if Cooper had been out in Los Angeles when the blackout hit, and if Cooper would have even died at all if he hadn't been here in Lima.

"Who next?" he asked, forcing all the what-ifs to the back of his head.

Artie cleared his throat, turning his chair to face away from Ryder's house. "Sam," he said. "Brackett Street's not far."

Blaine's skin ran cold. "I, uh…" he stammered. "That's not a good idea."

Artie froze. "What do you mean?"

"I already checked Sam's place."

"…Is he dead?"

"I don't know," Blaine answered honestly. "The house was burned down." He was careful to not mention the corpse on the front step.

Artie was quiet for a moment, his fingers tightly gripping the rims of his wheels. "Okay. It's okay," he said, sounding as though he were trying to reassure himself more than Blaine or Caitlin. "I'm sure we'll find someone. Let's just… let's just keep going."

* * *

Dani and Kurt knelt at the edge of the river by the trestle bridge, each rinsing their clothes as best they could in the shallow water at their feet. The water on Dani's forearms was freezing cold and sent shivers across her skin as she wrung out one of her shirts, heaving herself back onto her feet in order to turn and lay the shirt out on a sunny rock to dry. She brushed her damp hands off on the seat of her jeans, watching a kingfisher dive a little ways down the shoreline. The constant gurgling of the water passing was soothing, especially now that they weren't rushed to get back on the road, but she was sure Kurt didn't feel the same. He had barely spoken to her since they'd split up with Santana, and when he had his responses had been monosyllabic.

Dani sighed, shoving her hands in her pockets. "Kurt, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Kurt said tautly, not looking up.

Dani bit the inside of her cheek. "You don't seem fine."

"No, Dani, I'm _not_ fine!" he spat over his shoulder. "Rachel is _dead_ , we're still hundreds of miles from home, the world's freaking collapsed, and I'm washing my clothes in a goddamn river!" He huffed, angrily scrubbing at his soaking t-shirt with his fingers. "Things aren't exactly butterflies and rainbows."

"You don't have to yell at me," Dani retorted, though she didn't have the energy to put much force into her words at all.

Kurt didn't respond to that.

"And for your information, Kurt," she continued. "I'm dealing with the exact same things you are, so don't pretend like you're the only one going through this crap."

"You were the one who said we should stay in Easton," Kurt argued.

Dani threw her hands up. "I didn't say we were going to _live_ here! We just need a _break_! If we keep pushing ourselves as hard as we've been so far, we're going to end up killing ourselves before we ever get to Ohio. Is that what you want?"

Whether or not Kurt would have argued further, Dani never found out. The sound of shifting gravel made her turn towards the edge of the road by the bridge, where Santana was unsteadily making her way down the hill. Immediately, Dani realized something was wrong. Santana's expression was terrified and her limbs shook like she was barely able to hold herself up.

"Santana?" Dani rushed to her side, meeting Santana just as she reached the bottom of the slope. "Santana, what happened?"

Santana waved her off, feigning strength even as she had to sink down to sit on a boulder sunk into the dirt. "Had a run-in with some people who tried to take my bag. Long story short, I won." Even her voice was shaking.

Kurt had stood up, wringing out his shirt, and come to stand next to Dani. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Santana nodded, looking ill. "Yeah, I'm fine." She winced as she shrugged off the backpack – Dani quickly took it and placed it on the ground by Santana's feet. It was heavy and bulging.

"What happened?" Dani asked again.

"A couple people chased me all over town, I ran into a hardware store and then hit them with a sledgehammer. Not much else to tell. They won't be coming after me."

Dani stared at her, her jaw slack.

Kurt cleared his throat. "Did you find anything?"

"Yeah, there was some stuff left at the Rite Aid," Santana said, seeming grateful for the change of topic. "The only food I found was a box of cereal, but I got some other things that that'll be good to have."

Dani couldn't help but perk up at that, eagerly waiting as Santana unzipped the bag. When the first thing that Santana pulled out was a box of baking soda, Dani had to raise an eyebrow.

"…Are you going to make cookies?" Kurt asked with a frown, equally confused.

"No, Kurt, I'm not making cookies," Santana retorted flatly. "This is for washing up. We all need a shower. I'm not sure I can take the stink any more." She shoved the box into Kurt's hands.

"Huh?" was Kurt's only response.

"You can use baking soda as shampoo and toothpaste," Santana explained patiently. "Doesn't work as well as the real stuff, but it's better than nothing."

Dani blinked. "Really?"

Santana nodded. "When I was little, my mom was working like five jobs and we were still broke as hell. Baking soda's cheaper than real soap." She dug back into the bag. "And Kurt, I got you some razors and shaving cream. Seriously, it's time to lose the creeper beard. You're starting to look like Charles Manson."

"Gee, thanks," Kurt deadpanned.

"She has a point," Dani interjected, only to receive a glare from Kurt.

(Santana then pulled out three boxes of tampons, and Dani nearly cried from sheer joy.)

"Okay, but before anything else," Santana said, handing the tampons to Dani. She then yanked out the box of Frosted Flakes. "Breakfast."

The three of them sat on the gravel beach and watched the water rush by, eating fistfuls of dry cereal as the sun warmed the earth beneath them and stretched into afternoon. Clouds rolled by against a brilliant blue sky. The kingfishers dove from the trees lining the water a little ways upstream, and every once in a while the truss bridge would creak in the breeze.

Sitting on the ground next to Santana with their backs against the boulder, Kurt tried to allow himself to relax. He was already beginning to feel a bit better with some food in his stomach – even if it was only carbs and sugar – but he couldn't help repeatedly glancing over his shoulder to watch the road. It was possible he was just being paranoid, but the fact that Santana had had a violent encounter in town was making him nervous, and he kept imagining more thieves suddenly appearing at the top of the slope. Whether Santana thought there was a possibility she'd been followed, he wasn't sure.

When his belly began to cramp, they had only eaten halfway through the box. There wasn't much in his stomach, but he'd gotten far too used to having nothing in it at all that he had to stop himself from eating any more.

"I'm good," he said when Dani offered him the box again. "Save it for later."

Dani shrugged and rolled up the bag, stuffing it back into Santana's pack.

"You know, I'd give anything for a pizza right now," Kurt mused aloud.

"Mm, and a cold Diet Coke," Dani agreed.

Santana leaned back against the boulder, squinting up at the sky. "I just want a pint of Ben & Jerry's," she said wistfully. "Actually, scratch that. I want a whole gallon."

"I can't remember the last time I ate junk food just because I felt like it," Kurt said. He rested his elbows on his knees, tugging his overgrown hair back away from his forehead. "I'm sick of this eating-whatever-we-find shtick. It's gotten old fast."

Santana huffed through her nose. "Well, if you find a fast food joint that's still open, you let me know."

Kurt swallowed, watching the river in silence for a few minutes. It was the first time they had really stopped to take a breather, and by now Kurt was completely unfamiliar with the sensation of not being pressed for time. They weren't rushing to pack up and get back on the road by a certain time or to find a good place to sleep before dark. Maybe Dani had been right – they did need a break.

As far as whether they _deserved_ one, having let Rachel die and left her in New Jersey, Kurt didn't know.

Finally, he stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. "Okay, I'm taking a bath," he stated, pulling his shirt off over his head.

"Me too," Santana followed.

"I'm going to sit for a little while, digest a bit more," Dani said, waving them off.

"Suit yourself," Kurt replied as he yanked off his shoes, socks, and pants. He winced as the gravel dug into the soles of his feet and the breeze raised goosebumps on his skin.

Santana had also stripped to her underwear, and she grabbed the box of baking soda as she and Kurt walked to the edge of the water. Despite the fact that _everything_ else was about as awful as it could be, Kurt couldn't help feeling excited at the prospect of actually being _clean_. With only his toes in the freezing cold water, he held out his hand and Santana poured a small amount of soda onto his palm.

Only half a second later, Kurt realized he kind of had no clue what to do with it. Was he supposed to mix it with water and make a paste or something?

Having no other ideas, Kurt knelt and splashed a bit of river water onto his palm, trying to mix it into the soda without letting all of the white powder simply wash off.

Santana only rolled her eyes at him. "You're doing it wrong. Here." Without warning, she dumped a handful of dry baking soda onto his head.

Kurt flinched and grimaced. "Feels like you just poured sand all over me."

Santana placed the box on the shore behind them and reached over to rub the soda into his hair, massaging it into his scalp with her fingers. "Suck it up, it'll be out in a minute."

Kurt fell quiet, standing with his head bowed so that Santana could easily reach it. It'd been ages since someone had done this for him – he'd been to the hairdresser a couple weeks before the blackout, but it seemed like eons ago and he'd almost forgotten how _good_ it felt. He hadn't realized how much things like this made him feel like a human being.

Suddenly, he felt like a _person_ again.

His vision blurred, and he struggled to blink back tears.

"You've got a pretty impressive tan line back here, you know," Santana remarked as she continued to work her fingers through his hair.

Kurt let out a shaky breath, hoping that when he spoke it wouldn't sound like he was crying. "First tan of my life," he joked.

"It's more like a freckle line," Santana amended.

"I guess that's what happens when someone with my complexion is stuck outside for a month straight." Kurt paused, the inside of his chest feeling cold. "…It's really been a month, hasn't it?"

Santana sighed. "I think so."

"Do you think things will ever go back to normal?"

"You really want to have a philosophical discussion while I'm rubbing baking soda into your hair?"

"I'm not sure that question counts as purely philosophical."

"Either way," Santana said with a shrug. She didn't seem to want to talk about it, and instead changed the topic. "You need a haircut."

"So do you."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Santana abruptly spoke again. "You never mention Blaine," she blurted out, as though she'd been working up the courage to broach the subject.

Kurt tensed at that, his heart leaping into his throat. "Your point?"

"Might help to talk. We're all in the same boat."

"You never mention Brittany," Kurt countered.

Santana glanced at Dani out of the corner of her eye. "That's different."

"No, it's not."

Santana quickly drew her hands away from him. "You're done," she said brusquely. "Go rinse it out."

Kurt didn't move right away. Santana knelt to rinse her hands off in the water at her feet.

"For all I know, Blaine stepped on a piece of glass too," Kurt said. This time, he wasn't able to keep his voice from shaking.

"He's not that stupid," Santana replied.

"Neither was Rachel."

"Obviously she was."

Kurt bit his lip. "You don't mean that."

"Maybe I do," she snapped. She didn't meet his eye, but her hands were trembling.

Kurt didn't press it any further. Instead, he waded deeper into the river, diving in headfirst after a few steps. It was shallow and cold and the current was almost enough to drag him away, but it felt _good_. He could feel the frigid water digging into every pore of his skin, slowly rinsing a month's worth of sweat and dirt and grime away. It was almost as though he was shedding his skin entirely.

For the first time in a long while, he felt _alive_.

* * *

As the hours dragged on through the day and the sun swung across the sky, Blaine and Artie and Caitlin trekked in a massive convoluted loop around the town as they searched for the people they knew. But as the day edged toward evening and their energy dwindled, exhaustion gradually took hold. And even worse – _much_ worse – they had not been able to make contact with anyone at all.

Marley's home had been ransacked, the house all but torn to shreds, and she and her mother were nowhere to be found. Blaine had found a huge spray of blood in the kitchen where someone had been shot, but there was no body.

Unique's house had been razed to the ground. If there had been anyone trapped inside when it burned down, they weren't able to tell.

Tina and her family, much like Ryder and his, had abandoned the place. But here there wasn't so much as a note to hint at where they'd gone.

The only occupied house they encountered was Sugar's, but rather than being allowed inside, the three of them had only been shot at from an upstairs window. Artie was pretty sure it was Sugar's father holding the rifle, but to be honest he wasn't all that sure that Sugar would have let them in anyways.

As they walked back along Spencerville Road over the bridge crossing McClintock Lake, Artie broke the quiet. "Blaine, we have to check Kurt's house," he said finally. "We have to."

Blaine sighed, his shoulders slumping like he knew he'd been avoiding it. "I know. I know."

"How far is it?" Artie glanced up at the sun for a moment to check its distance from the horizon. They still had a couple hours left before dark.

"Couple blocks," Blaine answered. "Not far." His voice was almost shaking, like he was readying himself to jump off a cliff.

"Okay, let's go." Artie paused before turning his chair to backtrack along the road. "You going to be all right?"

Blaine nodded, though he didn't meet Artie's eye. "Yeah. Have to be."

They didn't discuss it any further, continuing on in silence as the sun dipped along the tops of the trees lining the street. Artie's heart was thudding noisily in his chest, as though his brain was instinctively preparing him for a quick escape from something. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A chill ran down his spine, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to reach out and grip Caitlin's hand, to make sure that she was with him, but he couldn't push his chair with only one hand. Instead, he slowed for a moment to let Caitlin walk a few steps ahead of him and kept her well within his sight.

When the three of them at last turned onto Wilson Avenue and spotted Kurt's house standing five doors down, Blaine released a massive, audible breath of relief. No signs of fire, no lingering stench of smoke and charcoal. The house stood exactly as it had the last time they'd seen it.

And then… they got closer, and Artie's heart sank.

The front door of the Hudson-Hummel house was left open and hanging by one hinge. Two of the windows at the front of the house had been smashed, shards of glass strewn across the porch and glinting in the evening sun.

Blaine broke into a run.

"Blaine, wait!" Artie cried, trying (and quickly failing) to keep up. " _Blaine!_ "

Blaine ignored him, sprinting up the porch steps and vanishing into the house. Artie could hear him yelling. " _Burt? Carole? Hello?!_ "

Artie finally rolled up to the front of the house, forced to stop at the steps. Caitlin stood next to him, anxiously shifting from foot to foot. "Blaine!" Artie shouted again, receiving no response from inside. It was so quiet that he could hear Blaine's heavy footfalls as he ran from room to room.

Artie and Caitlin waited impatiently on the flagstone path until Blaine at last re-emerged from the house, his shoulders low. He didn't say anything immediately, only sinking down to sit on the top step.

"Anything?" Artie prompted.

Blaine shook his head.

"…Are they in there?" Artie asked, his stomach in knots. _Are they dead?_ was what he was really asking.

"It's empty," Blaine said quietly. "They're gone."

Well, that was at least better than finding more bodies. "M-Maybe they went to New York to find Kurt."

There was a short beat, and then Blaine sucked in a sudden gasp, his chest shuddering. "Oh my God…" he whispered, beginning to hyperventilate. Within seconds, he could barely breathe.

Artie blinked, startled by Blaine's abrupt panic attack.

"I should've come here sooner. I— I— What if they're dead? God, Kurt's never going to forgive me. I should've—"

Artie leaned forward to grab Blaine's shoulder. "Blaine!" he said sharply. "Listen to me. If there's one thing we absolutely cannot do right now, it's panic. You need to _calm down_."

Blaine was fighting tears. "Are – are we the last ones?"

Artie's chest was tight, and he gritted his teeth for a moment. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "But we're going to keep looking, okay? We'll find someplace safe. I promise."

Blaine nodded, the tendons in his neck tightening as he struggled to slow his breathing. He swallowed. "Okay," he said thickly. "Okay."

Artie glanced at Caitlin; she was hugging her torso, her eyes wide with worry. "We'll go to Rachel's place," he declared, straightening his shoulders. "Her dads will be there, and if they're not, we'll just camp in the house for at least tonight."

"What if it got burned down?" Caitlin asked.

"Then we'll find the nearest empty house and stay there." Artie knew it was a solution that would only last so long, but it was better than nothing.

Blaine shakily stood up from the step, and as the sky already began to slowly turn pink the three of them left the vacated house in their wake. It was getting cold, and goosebumps coursed over Artie's skin in waves. He wished he'd been able to snatch a coat from Blaine's house before it had gone up in flames, but as it was, a coat was probably low on the list of their priorities. They had nothing to carry – no food, no extra clothes, no tent, nothing they could possibly use as weapons if they ran into Kitty's gang a second time. Though this made moving from place to place easier, it also made them utterly exposed. Artie's heart still knocked heavily against his ribs as if to scream at him:

_You're still in danger – why aren't you running?!_

* * *

Sweat dripped down Puck's neck as he yanked snug the belt of Mr. T's saddle, the sun beating down harshly on his shoulders. He had been anxious to get out of the desert for weeks, but now that Arizona was barely a mile or two away, he had progressed to sheer impatience. Adjusting the saddle one final time to be sure it wouldn't slip, Puck moved to Mr. T's head to double-check that the bridle wasn't too tight. Mr. T butted her nose into his chest with a snort, as though she was equally eager to leave.

He patted her cheek, telling her, "Just a few more minutes, and then we can get out of here."

Taking her reins in hand, Puck led Mr. T out of the corral, making sure to latch the gate behind them. "Mercedes!" he shouted in the direction of the cabin where they'd been staying. "You ready or what?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," she called back from inside.

"Hurry up!"

June emerged from the small horse barn past the corral, toting a large burlap sack in each arm. She had tied them together by the handles with a two-foot-long strap, and as she approached Puck she swung one over Mr. T's shoulders so that the pair hung crossways in front of the saddle. Mr. T stamped, adjusting to the weight.

"What's that?" asked Puck.

"She needs to eat better than what you were giving her before," June said. "I've got two more sacks of oats in the barn, and you're also going to take one of our other horses."

"Wait, what? You're serious?"

June gave a short nod. "We have five horses now, which is three too many now that all our ranch hands have gone. You'll get home quicker this way, and we won't have as many animals to worry about."

Puck stared at her in stunned silence for a full three seconds before he mustered up enough composure to thank her.

"Don't thank me. Just take proper care of your horses." She patted Mr. T's flank. "A couple more days out there and this one would've dropped dead. Don't let that happen again."

"Yes, ma'am."

The door to the cabin finally swung open and Mercedes stepped out with her backpack on her shoulders and Puck's clutched in her hand. She walked over to where Puck and Mr. T were standing, a small bounce in her step.

"I'm so ready to be gone," Mercedes said, grinning. "No offense, June, but I have had _enough_ of this freaking desert."

June smiled understandingly. "You need to get home."

"She's giving us another horse," Puck said.

The grin on Mercedes' face vanished, replaced by shock. "Th-thank you," she stammered.

June nodded, then gestured to the barn. "Come on, we'll get Peach geared up for you."

As Mercedes followed June back to the horse barn, Puck left Mr. T with her reins tied to the corral fence and strode over to June and Carter's house. He crossed the front porch and rapped twice on the door before stepping inside to their 1950s-esque kitchen. Carter was standing at the counter, packing a few supplies into a canvas bag.

"Hey there," Carter greeted him over his shoulder. "You and Mercedes about ready to head off?"

"Almost," Puck replied.

Carter lifted the bag off the counter and handed it over to Puck. "There you go," he said. "There's a few cans of beans and some beef jerky in there for you. It ain't much, but it's something."

Puck set the bag on the little dining table by the window. "Listen, I, uh…" He scratched at the remaining scab on his arm, feeling awkward. "I just wanted to thank you for everything. Gila bite or not, I'm pretty sure Mercedes and I would've died if we hadn't run into you."

Carter nodded, a genuine smile crinkling his eyes. A moment later, the smile faded and Carter's face turned serious. "Puck, I want you to take care of that horse as best you can, alright? He's June's favorite."

Puck frowned. "Then why's she giving him to us?"

Carter's shoulders fell. "You can't seriously think this ranch is going to be able to stay afloat for much longer," he said solemnly. "June and I can take care of the herd for a while on our own, but food's running out quick – for the herd and for us. Eventually, we're going to have to slaughter them. The horses are probably not going to make it either."

Puck's stomach went cold. "What are you going to do?"

Carter shrugged. "We'll likely end up going back to the reservation, if we can make it." He scratched the back of his neck. "June's giving you her favorite horse so that he's got the best chance of living. This desert is a death trap, but you'll make it out. So take care of him."

Puck nodded. "I will. Promise."

"I hope you get home safe," Carter said. "It's a dangerous world out there." He held out his hand, and Puck gripped it in a firm shake.

And for the first time since the blackout, Puck felt as though they had a fighting chance.

* * *

Luckily, Rachel's house wasn't far from Kurt's, and so Blaine, Artie, and Caitlin only had roughly a twenty-minute journey before reaching Maplewood Drive. It was a slightly wealthier part of town (only slightly) and the houses lining the street here were a bit nicer than some of the other neighborhoods. Now, several of the houses had been broken into or abandoned, but at the very least there weren't any that had been burned. At least, not yet.

Rachel's house was a few hundred yards back from the main road, and when the three of them approached it, Blaine was relieved to see there was no evidence of anyone breaking in. The curtains had been drawn shut in every window, the door tightly closed. Blaine wasn't sure if any of that meant that someone was still here, but at the very least, they would have a place to stay tonight (provided they could actually get in).

He turned to Artie and Caitlin. "Okay, wait here. I'll go see if anyone's inside."

Artie nodded, and Caitlin anxiously grabbed her brother's hand.

Blaine took a deep breath before striding up the flagstone path to the front door, careful not to make any noise as he stepped onto the stair below the door. He knocked sharply three times.

Silence.

He glanced back at Artie and Caitlin, then reached up to knock again.

This time, a curtain shifted in the window to his left, an eye peering out at him for half a second before vanishing. The curtain drew closed again.

For a moment, Blaine was certain whoever was inside was ignoring him and hoping he'd go away, but then the door flung open.

"Blaine!"

Blaine blinked and nearly fell back off the step in shock. "C-Carole!" he stammered.

Carole lurched forward and engulfed him in a fierce hug. "Thank God you're okay," she said, clutching his shoulders. "Thank God."

Relief and something that was probably akin to joy flooded his chest, and Blaine found himself hugging her back as tightly as he could. Suddenly and incredibly, he felt _safe_.


End file.
